Waiting
by TheFutilitarian
Summary: Almost a series of vignettes told backwards, spanning the course of several years of Mirandy's relationship.   Love: lacking, obsessive, adoring, cruel. Can - when does right become a wrong?
1. Preface

**Disclaimer:** Despite my various offerings of a couple of penny sweets and a used bit of string, I am reliably informed that the ownership of Devil Wears Prada and 20th Century Fox is still not mine. Disappointing... I can only assume they are holding out for my 98-99 Celtic sticker collection. But the joke is on them because rest assured, I am never parting with that!

I also do not own the rights to any of the songs used in this piece, I am fairly certain most of you would reject ownership to at least half of them if offered, but that's alright - I freely admit my music tastes are... lame.

**A/N: **I am running out of things to say about my betas, at least ones that can be said in a public place! Law_nerd and quiethearted are beyond fantastic - it's frightening to think before I met and solicited their help I blithely thought, "A beta? Pfft... I don't really need one of those." Ladies, thank you for joining the rest of the world in proving me wrong. I know I don't use you for some of my pieces and I am certain they are the poorer for it.

Which brings me onto the next point to address: this is the first time that there has been a major thing on which we have not been able to agree. As the author, or the person to whom Mirandy deigned to tell this tale, I excercised the right to go with what I had. Again, I will feel no shame should it transpire that I am wrong, and then you are even allowed to do the "I told you so" dance. I will also happily admit to all and sundry what we disagreed about and how right you were because regardless of anyone else's opinion... I still really like it the way it is. *grin*

This story started as an ITunes Meme with a difference, about two hours into that I realised that as per usual, it had all gone totally pear-shaped. Consequently, I just sort of left it and went with what it was, or should I say, what it clearly wanted to be.

I should probably dedicate this to yesterday's International Day of Femslash. It's rather fitting, that as in real life, I am fashionably late!

Lastly, it's taken my about this long to realise that I should have this in my notes: I thoroughly welcome concrit, in fact, I look forward to it. From the aforementioned beta experience, it is something that has massively helped me improve and, given I am only 6 months into writing, there is still a never-ending upwards curve ahead of me, so please feel free to criticise away.

**Apologies in advance for** : for my French spelling (using the english alphabet) and the fact that this site does not recognise the double dash as being something that exists!

**Story list of songs and artists (as per my Ipod):**

Unusual Way – Nicole Kidman

If You Could Only See – Tonic

Going Under – Evanescence

She's Always a Woman – Billy Joel (I allowed myself one cheat, this was it… it didn't used to be on my IPOD)

You Look So Fine – Garbage

Defying Gravity – Glee Cast

True Colours – Cindy Lauper

All Coming Back To Me – Celine Dion

**Enjoy!**


	2. Prologue

**Prologue**

"In a very unusual way, I owe what I am to you.  
Though at times it appears I won't stay, I never go.  
Special to me in my life,  
Since the first day that I met you.  
How could I ever forget you,  
Once you had touched my soul?  
In a very unusual way,  
You've made me whole."

**May 2011**

Sitting on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, drink in hand, used to be Andy's dream.

Tired after a day of sightseeing, they'd laughingly collapse into the chairs, much to the disgust of the undoubtedly snooty waiter, order the cheapest wine on the menu and under the bright summer sunshine watch the beautiful people saunter by.

"I don't see the onions," Nate would complain, "or the berets."

Confused, Andy would look at him questioningly.

"High School French. Mrs Schuster. I swear every picture of a French guy had onions, a stripy shirt, and one of those jaunty berets – the whole deal, you know. Have you seen any onions today? You know I've half a mind to sue the state of Ohio for emotional trauma on the back of their false advertising."

"Well, half a mind is right," Andy would tease. "Aaaahhhh," she'd laugh a minute later, as a woman would stroll by holding a mesh sack full of them.

"Oh, that's a chick. And they're in a bag. Come on, that doesn't count."

"Does too."

They'd continue to argue good-naturedly as the afternoon sunshine dwindled as surely as their pitiful funds. Once they'd get tired of the waiter's pointed looks over nursing the tiny carafe of wine, they'd amble off, holding hands and exchanging kisses; buoyed by their love, the drinks and the exciting plans for their future.

Sitting on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, drink in hand, used to be Andy's dream.

Then she met _her_.

And then Nate and Andy no longer had Paris, nor a future; actually, not much of anything at all.

How very appropriate that this afternoon, as she sits on the very same street she's always dreamed of frequenting, that there's no sunshine, just driving rain. There's neither wine nor much call for laughter. She is alone, the very opposite of that younger Andy's dream. Much as is her entire life now.

"Mademoiselle, perhaps I freshen your drink, _oui_?"

She watches the last of the ice as it slowly dissolves, mournfully melting its way to the bottom of her Scotch. Yes, she drinks Scotch now; no wine in the world is strong enough to dull the edge. Tears prickle as it finally disappears; she is the ice – an object whose sole existence is simply to augment another. Just as the ice is plunged into the whisky, so she has immersed herself entirely in Miranda, but too much longer soaking in Miranda's heady fumes and she fears there won't be any of Andy left.

"Mademoiselle?"

What the hell was the question? The persistent drumming of the rain keeps breaking her concentration. It takes a moment to realise that in this case the noise is the restless flicker of her hand flipping the Blackberry over and over on the metal table. Screen up – she comes. Screen down – she doesn't. She wonders how long she's been sitting there doing that. Ponders more why, even conscious of it, she can't seem to be able to stop the restless action.

"_Non, merci_."

She doesn't need to look up to see the pity in his eyes. While they may call Paris a city for lovers, those who form its ranks are well aware of the flip side of romance. Shivering slightly from the damp coolness of the air, she swirls the Scotch within the glass. Truth be told, the sight of it is enough to make her sick. Then again, maybe it's just her own reflection in the liquid – distorted, blurred – a facsimile of everything that she once aimed to be.

Another thirty minutes pass; more endless cycles of the phone, the tension ratcheting with every spin. She's late. _When isn't she? _As usual Andy ignores her inner voice. Over the years she's become extremely accomplished at denying its insistent tone, swatting its presence away like an annoying bee; just as she's chased away her principles, her morals, her family, and her closest friends. _And for what?_ Today the voice is more persistent. Maybe the rain, perhaps too much Scotch; either way her barriers have washed away. _What are you to her, Andrea? _Even her own chastisement takes Miranda's voice. _You're barely a friend, hardly a lover._ _Someone to scratch an itch - I would say that's bang on the money. Except we both know, Andrea, that for you – she's never been anything even remotely close to that. Doesn't go both ways though, does it?_

Another sound crashing through her thoughts, she lifts the cell in stupor and sees the spider web of cracks that all of a sudden splinter the phone's plastic screen. The truth is right there staring her in the face: one more hard spin and she herself might shatter. But she keeps on coming back – every month, like clockwork, no matter how often she tells herself this time is definitely the last. Miranda is an addiction, a compulsion, a craving Andy cannot beat. She'd crawl through broken glass to obliterate every trace of Miranda from her life and yet she knows she'd prostrate herself on the very same jagged edges to maintain their destructive connection, in reality – perhaps obsession. She doesn't know how to end this, how to change it, so she remains forever stuck. She hates her life, she hates Miranda, but most of all, she knows she loathes herself.

Four hours.

More than anything it frightens her how long she is prepared to stay; how many hours have already been wasted just… waiting. For something she knows will never come; for the woman - the dream that simply won't let go. The prickle behind her eyelids intensifies – she isn't strong enough to break this, Miranda is far too selfish to do so. There are only two ways out of this nightmare and in her moments of clarity Andy realises five years is cold hard proof of the feasibility of the first.

The phone rings.

Her hand trembles as she checks the number. Putting it to her ear, she rubs her eyes with her forefinger and thumb as though if she just tries hard enough, she can somehow physically push back the tears. The conversation's short, there are very few pretences left between them – too many years, too many words that can't be taken back. "Of course. Thirty minutes. I understand."

Time's up.

One, wrong, no, last… time – that's the soundtrack to the Miranda and Andy story.

Her short conversation ended, she lingers only for a second. It's long enough to hear a raindrop plop quietly into the scotch, sending ripples across the surface of the amber. Not until a nervous swipe of her tongue along her bottom lip carries with it a hint of salt, does she understand it's not the rain, just a lone tear. With heavy heart and ease of practice, she deftly extracts the familiar object out of her pocket. As all too frequently of late, her fingers fumble with the final act and it skitters across the table before her hand slams down, trapping it as surely as she's entrapped by it. The hint of gold is but a fleeting glimmer but the waiter's hawk-like eyes catch it, now switching to pity of a different kind, one that's entirely not aimed at her. Defiantly, she slides the ring onto her finger, catching a last glimpse of herself in the café's window as she exits into the heavy downpour.

Gone is the distortion that waiting for Miranda has always created. No longer seen, not for a very long time, is Andy Sachs. All that remains is the woman who's a stranger in her own skin – one Madame Pierre Charreaux.


	3. The End is the Beginning

**The End is the Beginning**

"If you could only see the way she loves me  
Then maybe you would understand  
Why I feel this way about our love  
And what I must do

If you could only see how blue  
Her eyes can be when she says  
When she says she loves me"

**August 2011**

When we are small our biggest worries can be soothed by a loving kiss, a helping of our favourite ice cream, a ratty teddy bear whose threadbare body has been worn out by countless hugs and soaked by innumerable tears. It's not till we are much older, our worries immeasurably bigger, that we understand that for some things there simply aren't any kisses, cuddles or ice cream big enough.

Contemplating this, Andy burrows deeper into the oversize woolly sweater that she has stretched over her knees, which are so close to her chest they have practically melded with her torso. She is pretty sure she is a pitiful sight: the rough wool chafes her cheek, her neck cricks from the awkward angle of her head, her limbs went stiff a while ago, and the cold air has long wormed its way through the pores of the chunky cloth. The cushion on the porch's bench provides some padding but it isn't designed for hours of continuous sitting. She is damp, shivering, in clear discomfort, and she can't bring herself to care. Well, that's not strictly true, she cares. But she is aware that she has no right to.

No pain of Andy's deserves to be the focus of today.

Inhaling deeply, she gets a whiff of the familiar cologne. At the beginning she used to tease him mercilessly about his penchant for pre-perfuming his clothes, call him a girl. She still remembers the slashing line of crimson that used to stain his cheeks, one of the many things that she adored; one of the many things that made Pierre – fallible. The blush has faded with time, so has Andy's adoration. Or maybe it's just that it never existed in the first place. Maybe it was only a spillover; misattribution of emotion she longed to - has always felt for someone else.

Andy swallows, halts her treacherous thoughts. Her fingers itch to check the phone and she curls them into a fist to stop herself from reaching for it. It's physically painful: her heart thuds a little duller, some part of her, maybe her lungs, feel as if they are being denied air - breath. But that phone is the past. It has to be.

_She_ is the past.

The comfort Andy has instinctively sought is proof of that. She has Miranda's shirt, an item she has pilfered furtively – a perfect metaphor for many things. Yet when push comes to shove, she doesn't reach for it; perhaps she fears, like its owner, it could never provide the kind of solace that Andy seeks. The rain continues to fall, the overhanging eaves of their vineyard cottage collecting and depositing water with a steady pitter patter onto the wooden steps below. _Thunk thunk thunk_. Andy is hypnotised by each drop; nature's hourglass, ticking her - their minutes away.

Almost on cue, she hears the door creak; mentally makes a note to oil the hinge now that it seems she'll be spending a lot more time up here. The wooden plank groans a little, the one they laughed about needing to fix when Pierre carried her over the threshold the first time they came up here to see his family's crazy extravagant wedding present to them. They've never fixed it, didn't get around to it. They've never gotten around to far too many things. Bitterness sweeps through her, anger, buried deep down beneath – utter desperation. "Don't go." She doesn't pretend that she truly wishes he would stay but acknowledges that, in this moment, the thought of loneliness is far worse than continuing to live a lie.

Her self loathing jumps another notch.

"Andrea."

It strikes her only now, when everything is about to end, how very much she has always loved the way he says her name. How very much, in her own twisted fucked up way, she's always loved him. More accurately – the _her_ parts of him. Because she's never looked too closely at the other parts –the real Pierre; it's never been something that she's allowed herself to see. She'd weep if she thought there was a point, if she thought there were tears still left to shed. Because, above all, this proud man that they - she has maimed, destroyed and broken deserves to feel a measure of satisfaction that he does not leave here the only one with nothing left.

"Look at me, ma cherie."

The soft endearment settles over her with the comforting familiarity of a well-used blanket. It is a reminder she owes him the decency of meeting his gaze. The blue is an ocean of sadness and regret but in amongst its turbulent depths she can still discern the single drop of something else – pity. At last, she understands why Miranda has always hated to see it in Andy's eyes. The pity burns, scorches away the self-delusion, until all that remains is the truth of what, who, you truly are. She responds, "You really think _she_ can compare to _me_?" Scorn drips from her every syllable. Miranda would be proud.

The blue wavers a little, shimmers. All of a sudden Andy realises that just because she has none of her own, does not mean that there are no tears left. Pierre has never hidden his emotions, would they have lasted longer if he had?

"She is not you."

The quiet words are supposed to make her feel better, ease her own pain. They don't. There's only a growing comprehension that instead of one, her actions will likely tear all three of them apart.

"_Je suis desolais_."

_Good word when meant_, Andy's writer remarks inside her own head. Desolation is extremely apt; so strong a feeling, that without noticing it, Pierre has lapsed into his native tongue.

"For what?" She is fluent in French, of course, but in this moment Andy clings to the tiny comfort of anything that she deems as being… hers.

The question's redundancy hangs awkwardly between them; they both know that out of everyone involved, Pierre carries the lightest load of sin. Never in a million years would the youthful naïve Andy Sachs have deemed love to be a grave transgression but time has proven, enjoyed hammering home, how oh so very wrong that girl had been.

Throwing his head back, Pierre swipes his hands over his face from his hairline to his neck; a ragged sigh escapes his lips. When he looks at Andy again, he is more composed, calm. "I am sorry that she isn't you." His hand reaches into his pocket, extracts the key. Silent, he places it onto the table; there's really no need for words. He's signed the vineyard over to Andy in the divorce because he says the memories are more than he can bear. This is his last trip: to collect his things, to cast his eyes one last time over his shattered dream. Turning away, his shoulders visibly sag; there is an unbearable heaviness to his tread. Andy desperately wants to call him back, longs to beg that they give it one more try.

As his foot hovers over the bottom step, the rain darkening his immaculate shirt, soaking his wavy hair, he hesitates; throws her one last look. Instantly, Andy's mind flashes back to the photo Madame Charreaux has on the mantelpiece – of Pierre as a child, his ice cream on the ground, the same sullen heartbroken look. His smile is stiff with barely contained sorrow and Andy has never been more aware that she must learn to let him go. That little boy - this man, deserve a different Andy Sachs – an Andy Sachs that loves him; that is helplessly, hopelessly, irrevocably _in_ love with him. Maybe it could've been this one if only she'd met him first, but there is no use wishing for what will never come to pass. "Most of –" he pauses to swallow, tries once more. "Most of all –" temporarily giving up, he hangs his head for several seconds, blows out a long drawn out sigh. Andy hears the almost inaudible 'merde' he mutters under his breath. When he raises his head again, she's certain the moisture on his face is not just rain. "Most of all, Andrea, I am sorry I am not _her_."

* * *

Despite the parting, it takes till that night for understanding to truly sink in. It's not that she's never slept alone – Pierre was often away on business, so was she. It's just somehow - suddenly, as she gazes at the empty side in the king-size bed, it is all so irrevocably… final.

She follows her nightly ritual: brushes her teeth, applies the products – 'the Miranda effect', one of the many; checks the locks. Then she proceeds to painstakingly lay out three things on the other side of the bed. Firstly, the peacock blue Bill Blass blouse – its splash of colour as vivid as its former owner was against the colour of these sheets. Secondly, the cell phone – carefully placed in the centre of the pillow. She has checked it just once, unable to help herself; has seen the three missed calls. No voicemails of course; five years have still not elevated Andy to the status where Miranda might deign to leave a message telling her exactly how she feels. The indifference is what hurts the most. After all this time is three attempts really the sum of what Andy deserves? The screen is dark now, so much better that she turned it off – for now she's had quite enough of reality and truth. Involuntarily, her fingers flutter to the 'on' switch before she remembers that Pierre, like her, is holed up somewhere remote, far away. And even if she called him, even if he answered, what exactly would she say, "Why can't she love me like I love her?" The irony of that thought makes her laugh – a harsh choked sound.

She picks up the last item, clasps it to her chest. This one has been in her possession for less than 24 hours yet its significance is more important than both the other things combined. Just several square inches of slightly stiff white paper represent the hardest decision she's ever made – the one to walk away. _Seat 15A, CDG to NY_. She smiles at today's first pleasant thought – at least the person in 15B would have enjoyed the extra space. Giving it one last lingering look, she tucks one end under the pillow, over the blouse.

The quiet has never bothered her before but tonight it feels oppressive. Just as with the phone, her hand reaches for the remote control, pauses; the TV stays off. One last look around the room, at her brand new life, and Andy climbs in to settle under the covers. Her body protests the abuse of continuing to be clad in the woolly sweater, heat and ever present itchiness almost simultaneously registering in Andy's mind. A morbid thought flits through her head – she is doing a modern day equivalent of penance – her very own 'hair shirt'. Well, if anyone deserves it.

Hand trembling as she reaches for the light switch, she tells herself for the hundredth time today that what she is doing is the best thing for everyone – the right choice – even though it's never felt less as such. The room is plunged into darkness and almost instantly the silence amplifies. Her voice has never sounded louder as she whispers, "Goodnight, Miranda." Her fingertips trailing over all three things in one last delicate brush, Andy doesn't say what she knows she really means – _goodbye_.

* * *

Morning arrives both too quickly and not quite soon enough. Her night is dream filled – Pierre, Miranda, her family, all her friends, even the twins; all of them standing over her, accusing her of things she has and hasn't done. The alarm blares loudly, through habit she's forgotten to turn it off. For a second she contemplates rolling onto the other side and pulling the covers over her head but common sense propels her to the shower – there's far too much to do, the rest of her life to plan - to live.

In the middle of brewing the coffee in the kitchen, a long drawn out ritual, she hears a sound she doesn't expect – the engine of a car. The vineyard is isolated, the weather's awful, and Andy isn't expecting company today. For a moment painful hope flares, maybe Pierre has come back after all. Instantly quashing that thought, she waits, too tired to deal with the world. Maybe whoever it is will think that she isn't here, leave her to her misery.

It's quite some time before she hears a car door slam, the clack of the owner's shoes on the wooden floorboards announcing their ascent up the front steps of the porch. Startled, Andy realises it is a woman…in heels? Her days at Runway and her clandestine meetings with Miranda have made her attuned to that unmistakeable tread. The step is self assured, firm but almost rushed, as if its owner is in a terrible hurry. Why then such a long time to get out of the car? The loudly insistent pounding interrupts Andy's contemplation and she instantly realises whoever this is isn't going away, won't be ignored. Resigned, Andy trudges to the door; swings it open.

The sight that greets her kills Andy's polite, trite greeting stone cold. It's one she's never seen before, despite having seen this woman on hundreds of occasions – Miranda isn't just dishevelled, she's clearly passed that point some time ago. The carefully coiffed hair is in disarray, as though nervous hands have run through it a dozen times. Her clothes are carelessly wrinkled; the blouse – Andy has to double check, yes, missing a button. But it is her face that is the most arresting sight: even in the comfort of a bedroom Andy has never seen Miranda without make up. Every line, every wrinkle, every spot is laid bare, for the world - for Andy to see. There are bags under Miranda's eyes, her skin is sallow and her eyes… they are the most telling – grey, lifeless, dull.

Horror slices clean through Andy. Five years isn't long enough to forget Miranda in Paris; the divorce. Even then, she has never looked this bad and Andy instantly knows – the girls. She doesn't know what Miranda wants from her but whatever it takes she is prepared to give it: a place to stay, the comfort of her body, if necessary – her blood. "M-miranda …"

Almost as if all it takes is for Andy to speak, the grey sparks; morphs into a cold and furious blue. The anger sizzles across Andy's skin long before she is grabbed and flung against the nearest surface – the kitchen counter, her lips captured in a relentless bruising kiss. No love, no care, Miranda's lips mete out only hate. Andy feels a stabbing pain and in the next instant she is flung away, her tongue tasting the metallic tang of blood on her freshly torn lip.

Miranda bends over the counter: head forward, leaning her weight on her arms, fingers digging into the granite counter, chest heaving, breathing ragged. Licking her own lip, it is as if the taste of Andy's pain calms her, control being regained in waves. One breath – the hands unclench, second breath – the chest rises and falls more evenly, third breath – the cold mask dons. "Where is it?"

This stare is impassive, hard; burns in a different way.

"W-where's what? Miranda, what's wrong, is it –?"

"Never mind."

Clearly unsatisfied with Andy's answer, Miranda pushes past her and into the living room, her laser stare surveying - searing all in its path.

"Perha –"

"Shut up."

Sighting the objective she's been looking for, she reaches the coffee table in three sharp strides. On it lies the cell phone, an item Andy hasn't disposed of as of yet. Reaching for it, Miranda's hand hesitates; trembles. Somewhere in the back of Andy's mind the part that notices the tiniest thing tells her this is important, that the way Miranda is acting has to be for a reason, but her cognitive self struggles to piece it all together.

Trying again, she grasps, Miranda's arm, "Miranda …" She is forcefully shoved away; fortunate that the couch is right behind her so instead of falling, she simply sprawls across its softness in an ungainly fashion. "Okay, look –"

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up."

The vitriol behind those words stings Andy's eyes. She's never heard Miranda swear, this woman has never resorted to crudeness to shred even the toughest person and they are both aware Andy is far from that. The phone is flung into her lap, the start up tone pinging melodiously. Andy's eyebrows draw together in incomprehension, "I know you called. I know …"

"Don't." Miranda's tone is low, almost a growl. "You've never _known_ anything, you stupid girl."

At last, Andy almost wants to fall to her knees in gratitude. Her anger rises to the surface, the anger she has never voiced. But finally Miranda has given her enough of a reason, has triggered the one thing usually buried so deep below. Opening her mouth, she is interrupted by the blare of CNN, Miranda having turned on the TV. Andy is confused again, her rage derailed. The remote lands next to the phone and suddenly Miranda is looming over her – a dark malevolent presence. Planting her arms either side of Andy's head, she brings their faces together until there is almost nothing between them – except time, distance, pain and lies.

"God damn you, Andrea."

Each word is enunciated clearly, bitten out with more venom than Andy believes Miranda's slender body can possibly hold. Tears spring to her eyes – even in this she is wrong; it seems where Miranda is concerned there is always enough of those left. Gazing into the blue, thinking of the one from yesterday, Andy is struck by the fundamental difference between the two. Pierre's blue is warm –that of a nurturer, longing to protect. This blue is a predator – one in its prime, designed only to devour and hurt. Before Andy can even open her mouth or formulate a response, Miranda is gone, the only sign of her presence – the subtle swirl of her delicate perfume.

The cell phone whirrs and pings, Andy automatically looking down to check its screen. Seeing its display, she pauses; closes her eyes, re-opens them. The line of text, the message, doesn't change. _You have 49 missed calls._ Listed beside each one is exactly the same stupor, she presses the phone to her ear, listens to every voicemail, or more precisely – to none. The anger returns. Forty nine might be somewhat more than three but they are all still meaningless without words. Standing up, she turns, and it is only then that the sound of the TV – what's actually being said – penetrates her subconscious.

_At the top of the hour, FAA investigators confirm that they have not yet recovered the black box from the doomed Air France flight 778 which crashed into the Atlantic Ocean yesterday afternoon. The Boeing 777 plane, en route to the La Guardia airport in New York, is believed to have been carrying 234 passengers. Whilst the search and rescue operation is under way, fears continue to grow that no survivors will be found. A statement…_

The strangled sound is Andy's own, a hand flying to cover her mouth. AF778 is - was her flight. The one she was meant to be on, the one she checked in for. The one – her hand is now there to hold back bile – the one Miranda knew about, having made the reservation herself.

_No survivors_.

Andy sways, suddenly dizzy; she hasn't eaten for at least a day.

_No voicemails._

She sits back down, her legs now rubber.

_Oh God. _

_Miranda._

Head between her legs, several deep breaths later, and Andy feels like she will not run and throw herself in Miranda's arms; will not beg, plead, and apologise; will not vomit the meagre contents of her stomach on sight.

She must be strong.

This changes nothing.

Eventually, she stands up, walks outside on uncooperative legs, her whole body already dreading this confrontation. It is a terrible cliché to say that someone looks like they just aged ten years, the writer in Andy rails even at the thought of such a term, but the truth is – the description is only trite because so frequently, like now, it is so apt. Miranda has slid down the side of the tiny Peugeot 306 unmindful of the muddy dirt, the discomfort, the pelting merciless rain. Much like Andy, her knees are drawn up, and over the driving staccato of the rain, the gut wrenching sobs are louder still. Every line, furrow and wrinkle has been further thrown into stark relief – each one a reflection of Miranda's burden, the price she's had to pay for her morals and beliefs.

The rain soaks Andy's t-shirt instantly but she owes Miranda at least this much. Crouching down some distance away, she waits till their gazes connect. They stare at each other: seconds, minutes, lifetimes pass. Their eyes, their bodies, perhaps even their souls talk while verbally they say nothing at all. Finally, Andy asks: one question, one truth remaining to be voiced; that stands between them, that's drawn them together as much as it's driven them apart. "Tell me. Say it."

"Andrea."

"SAY IT."

She sees Miranda hesitate.

"Here and now. Tell me. Or I _will_ walk away."

Knowing Miranda needs the extra push she stands up slowly, turns.

"I love you."

The words are strong, unflinching; firm.

Their gazes reconnect. The blue is mournful and sad and yet both proud and defiant. Even here, the words wrenched from her lips, Miranda issues a challenge; meets Andy on her own terms. A dozen emotion flicker through Andy's mind but she chooses to focus on only one – _envy_. Because in this moment, the one that she's convinced she's waited for almost her entire life, jealousy is exactly what she feels. Even here at her lowest ebb, having never been more broken, Miranda doesn't bend. There's no apology, no hesitation, only the strength of a long held personal conviction. It is this strength that Andy covets, this very element that she has realised she must destroy.

_A house can't be built on rotten foundations. _

Her father's words echo through her head even as the knowledge of what must happen next immeasurably weighs down her heart. This woman – her lover, her teacher, her tormentor – the one that's split open Andy's shell, gazed inside, exposed what's truly underneath, is only blind to one thing – herself. There's just one lesson to teach her in return, only one honour a protégée can ever bestow.

The words are effortless, "I love you. I am in love with you."

The pale irises soften, the grey bleeds out, the blue becomes the summer sky. Andy waits. She sees it, probably before Miranda recognises it herself – a faint spark of hope. Spreading ever so slowly, it surrounds - engulfs the entire blue. Andy takes a long hard look, captures the memory in her mind; stores it away for later. Later – when there are just the rare few memories to keep her going, her sole company on the long and lonely nights.

There are no second thoughts, no hesitation as she maintains the connection between them, smiles and delivers the punch line to the unvarnished punishing truth, "But I despise Miranda Priestly."


	4. Last Time

**Last Time**

"Now I will tell you what I've done for you  
Fifty thousand tears I've cried  
Screaming, deceiving and bleeding for you  
And you still won't hear me, going under

Don't want your hand this time, I'll save myself  
Maybe I'll wake up for once  
Not tormented daily, defeated by you  
Just when I thought, I reached the bottom

I'm dying again, I'm going under  
Drowning in you, I'm falling forever  
I've got to break through, I'm going under"

**June 2011**

Pierre rails at the thought of buying a table from IKEA, spends hours cajoling Andy and pleading with her that it is easier to have a ready made hand crafted table delivered, that he is too busy to put it together, this and that. He gives in and sulks as they walk the aisles until Andy spots the perfect one. Lugging the box up the stairs, he complains with every step until Andy has to tell him that unless he pipes down she will kick him out until it's done. His Gallic pride reasserting itself he huffs and glares at her through the 40 minute exercise of reading almost incomprehensible instructions, assembling pieces of wood, screwing, tightening, until – voila – one burnished mahogany table stands in the centre of the room. Andy grins, feeling a sense of achievement; Pierre mutters as he walks round looking for imperfections.

"Hah!" His exclamation interrupts Andy's warm glow of accomplishment. She turns to see him triumphantly holding up a screw like it's the mythical cup of Christ. "And this is?"

Damned if Andy knows. She is certain she followed the instructions, she checks every place, every setting. No missing screws. She shrugs, "An extra?"

Pierre snorts, "A De Bournais would not come with an extra… anything." He makes a face which clearly conveys his disgust, the screw now hanging between his fingertips as if a poisonous snake. Andy responds by throwing a cushion at his head. He growls; she laughs. A pillow fight ensues and ends in the pillows being used for something other than fighting.

Andy never does find a place for the offending screw.

They never visit IKEA again.

* * *

As she lies there underneath the thrusts she knows now is not the time for such a memory, and yet strangely it is the perfect time. Pierre makes her feel like the De Bournais – elegant, polished, and refined. No extras there, no flaws, no imperfections; Andy knows exactly what to expect. Miranda, ah Miranda, she would probably kill Andy were she to mention her and IKEA in the same breath. But that is what she is when she is with this woman – the IKEA table being constructed by Miranda's clever hand. Piece by piece she assembles Andy together and on the rare occasions all the pieces fit. Like that night in Paris, after they had finished, when Andy knew for certain that Miranda was the one. But more often than not, just as it's bound to happen today, they finish and Andy knows that something's missing. For the table, it's the screw; for Andy – each screw represents a part of her: her heart, her soul, perhaps even her body. For on nights like this, whilst they dress together afterwards, Andy quite literally feels diminished.

She can feel the orgasm building now, a train gathering speed: no control, no brakes, no driver; a crash the only sure-fire way to stop. She resists it, she didn't used to, but now it has become something to fear as much as it is something to enjoy. Another mark, another piece missing, another way Miranda will assert control. Andy remembers writing an essay on why it is better to be loved than feared, the fact that she is scared to ask speaks volumes about whether Miranda prefers to be feared rather than loved. Funny how school never prepares you for reality: that mostly things are - end up being a curious mix of both.

The beam of the train's lights is blinding, cuts across any errant thought. She's been thinking too much recently when they are together, does Miranda even notice? Not that it matters, no thought is ever enough. The train – orgasm - slams into her with an incredible force, her back arches; it feels like she is tossed up into the air. Crashing back down, her heart skips a beat, she momentarily loses breath; wonders if it's really possible that each time the momentum is stronger, the time between her heartbeats longer. What if one day she never regains breath, her heart just stops? Her smile is bittersweet – too easy, too pleasurable a way to go. And she is sure Miranda would find some way to bring her back.

Probably just to do it all over again.

Miranda's grip tightens, her nails dig into Andy's thighs. Andy winces, glances down to where Miranda's head rests between her legs. Their gazes meet and not for the first time, something flashes in Miranda's eyes, something Andy cannot decipher. She longs, craves, needs to understand what this woman feels but there has always been a surface between them – a door, a window, a wall – an impenetrable barrier that Andy has never been able to breach. All she can read is the lingering satisfaction, triumph, sometimes outright gloating; Miranda is always so pleased with herself. Andy no longer looks into her eyes when she is about to come, she cannot take it – Miranda's arrogance brings tears to her eyes. And above all else Miranda hates tears, so Andy has schooled herself to never cry, at least not in front of this woman. When she's alone there are copious tears – for them, for Pierre, quite often for Andy herself.

A grey sheen steals over the blue, Miranda's stare now more intense; Andy resists the urge to close her eyes, to hide. The barrier is exclusive to Miranda – a one way looking glass; to Miranda, Andy has always been an open book. Whatever she sees in Andy's eyes tonight does not appear to please the older woman. She purses her lips, rises in one fluid motion; bites out, "I have a busy schedule tomorrow." That's as much of an explanation as Andy ever gets, well, sometimes there is more – mostly just orders, Andy often bites her tongue so as not to caustically remind Miranda that she no longer works for her.

"This is the last time," Andy's words are quiet. Miranda merely laughs. It is a sharp, harsh sound; in Andy's fanciful imagination it often appears to resemble a broken sob. "I mean it," this time her voice is barely above a whisper, to her own ears her conviction not as strong.

"You always say that, Andrea, but both of us are well aware you'll be back." This time the laughter is sardonic and the arrogance is evident again: in Miranda's posture, in her face, but most of all it is reflected in her eyes. Mixed in with that is a hint of something else – a challenge, some gauntlet that's always thrown down; another thing that Andy fails to understand.

"I - I," before she can complete the sentence, there is a sharp rap on the door. Miranda freezes, all motion stilled; all of her registering surprise as she gazes at the door. They are in a hotel room in New York, each one checked in anonymously – no-one should know where or who they are. Miranda hastily throws on a bathrobe, Andy burrowing a little deeper under the covers of the bed. The knocking suddenly stops, they both release a breath, then just as abruptly it resumes. Miranda huffs – a sigh of utter impatience, then as though having made a decision, in a few confident strides she reaches the door. Flinging it open, she barks out, "What?" then takes a step back – nothing like her usual confident self – a short and nervous tread.

On her heels into the room stumbles Pierre, a keycard poised for use in his left hand. It takes but a mere second for him to survey the room; take in the revealing landscape, inhale the smell of sex that lingers on the sheets. He laughs and it almost sounds like Miranda's laughter – a mocking hollow broken sound. He grimaces, throws the keycard on the bed, and turns to Miranda with a look of venom, "Deep down I've always known, but like a fool, I managed to delude myself. You see I believed in her, I believed in what we had - what I thought we had, but it was all a lie. Amazing, isn't it, Miranda, how much we are capable of fooling ourselves. Into believing that what we want is the only thing that matters, that our desires should be fulfilled at anyone's expense. But then again, we are all rather selfish creatures underneath and I suppose that no-one should know more about that than you yourself." Not waiting for Miranda's comeback, Pierre glances down at Andy dismissively, his tone terse, "Andrea, get dressed, my car is out front." Having said his piece, he throws one last contemptuous glance Miranda's way, then exits, leaving behind a silence long unbroken by a word or any sound.

Eventually, Andrea rises; dresses. There's really nothing left to say. Throughout her routine she feels the burning on her back, in her chest; resists the urge to rub each spot where she can feel Miranda's stare. Her make up, clothes – façade – assembled, she traces Pierre's path to the door. Her hand on the handle, she turns to give a parting look to Miranda and is weighed down by the contemplation in the deep grey of her gaze.

"Why?" At last Miranda breaks the silence, her entire demeanour curiously empty of any condemnation, almost faintly tinged with what sounds like pride.

"It's over," Andy breathes; the truth of what she's saying causing goosebumps to break out along her skin.

"Good," Miranda nearly smiles then suppresses it as she has what looks like second thoughts. "Of course –"

"It's over," Andy repeats herself, her palm now flat against the door. She knows precisely the moment her meaning sinks in. "There won't be any more lies."

Miranda swallows, taps her bottom lip with the pad of her forefinger and smiles, "Oh Andrea, do you really think I'll stop just because he knows? Did you truly hope that I would be consumed by guilt; that perhaps his suffering would weigh down my conscience?" Her tone changes, gentles; becomes introspective, "No." Almost in a soliloquy she continues, "At times I feel that I could fuck you were he to be in the very same room." Almost ruefully she follows up, "Silly me, I forget, I already have." A darkness creeps into her eyes – an ugliness – and Andy understands Miranda doesn't actually feel regret. Not for that act, their affair, for any of it; but then of course Andy had always known, envisaged that. Miranda's accountability for her deeds was just a futile hope though not the most hopeless; after all, that award is levied on something else entirely unattainable – Miranda's recognition, respect and love.

"I did it for him."

"Don't kid yourself, Andrea. We both know that you did it for yourself."

"You are right," Andrea turns to face, her back resting fully on the door. Her nails dig into the wood, she needs the courage, "but you are also very wrong. He is much more than you are, he's better than I am; out of all of us he is the strongest – it's why I needed him to see."

"You are hoping that he'll leave you."

"No, it's only for you that I reserve such uncertainties as hope." A flare of deep blue pierces the grey. "With him, there are no mights, perhapses or maybes; with Pierre, I always just know."

"Yet perfect Pierre isn't enough though, is he, Andrea?" Miranda's sneer distorts her features, "Or you wouldn't come running when I call. Tell me, do you see his image when I fuck you, or is the truth that with his every thrust you picture me?"

Andy says nothing, swallows bile; standing across the room Miranda swallows a smirk.

In a hoarse voice, Andy finally whispers, "This isn't love - it can't be. Miranda, this thing between us is wrong, fucked up beyond belief. Why can't you let me go? Why can't you - please." She should feel embarrassment to be pleading so openly but all she can focus on is locking her trembling knees.

"No," the quiet response is absolute. Now it takes everything not just to keep standing but not to give in to the urge to cry.

Andy hangs her head, takes a deep breath, swallows convulsively and nods. "You won't hear from me again, Miranda." On legs much steadier than she thought they'd be she turns around and slowly opens the door.

"I'll be here, Andrea, waiting for your call."

The sting of tears sears her eyes but she is no longer facing her beloved demon so she does not hold back, resting her head against the wood as the tiny splashes of liquid start to fall. _I am stronger than you. I have to be_. She doesn't voice it, simply inhales with a shudder, without a final look walking out of the door.


	5. No Time

**No Time**

"She can lead you to love  
She can take you or leave you  
She can ask for the truth  
But she'll never believe you  
And she'll take what you give her, as long as it's free  
Yeah, she steals like a thief  
But she's always a woman to me

And she'll promise you more  
Than the Garden of Eden  
Then she'll carelessly cut you  
And laugh while you're bleedin'"

**March 2009**

Winter has long ago been Andy's favourite season, she loves the snow. There is something about the purity of the white which mesmerises her, its blank expanse a canvas on which any possibility can be painted real. Except for this one. As she stares at what seems to be a mile of white, the possibilities don't multiply, they narrow; a tunnel as tapered as the column of the dress. Her breath hitches, she tries to talk but suddenly there isn't the air in her lungs to do so.

"Are you alright, Mademoiselle Sachs? Would you like a glass of water, champagne? I even have Scotch." The kindly brown eyes crinkle at the corners as a broad smile breaks. "I see this all the time: the nerves, the panic, the fear. I promise when you walk down that aisle, it will *poof*," she clicks her fingers, "all disappear."

"But this isn't my dress," Andy eventually manages to get out. "I mean –"

"No?" Amusement now warms the brown. "I have your dress right here," she indicates a closet off to the side. "This - this is a _cadeaux_, a –" she searches for the right word, "a present, a gift. It sounds better in French though, _non_?"

Andy smiles weakly. "Who –"

Madame Girard waggles her finger and laughs. "_Non_, _non_, I cannot say. It is a secret." Leaning in conspiratorially, she whispers, "The truth is even if I wanted to tell you, I do not know. This gown was delivered this morning with just a simple note."

"What did it say?"

"That they only want you to try it on. It is a stunning piece, Mademoiselle – an original, of that I am certain."

"Uhm, a one-off?" Andy feels the start of a dull buzzing noise in her ears.

"_Mais oui_, this is a Fausto Sarli." She suddenly eyes Andy with scepticism. "You do know who Fausto Sarli is, do you not?"

"Of course," _I've worked at Runway, after all_. The dull noise grows to a roar. Only one person could have arranged this. "Throw it away. I mean, give it away, destroy it, I don't care. Just get it out of my sight."

The look of horror on Madame Girard's face would be comical if Andy wasn't too busy struggling for breath. How could she - how –

The jingle of the boutique's door echoes across the back of the store and almost immediately a cloud of familiar signature perfume wafts to Andy, quickly followed by a melodious, "Andrea."

Pierre's mother.

No, damn it, no.

She gasps, "My dear, quelle magnifique. So beautiful. Why did you not tell me? Is this what you would like to wear tomorrow?"

Andy doesn't have the strength to turn around. How does Miranda do this? How does she always manage to orchestrate things so precisely? How how how? The question chaotically swirls inside her mind, the neon, foot high word tumbling to and fro behind her eyelids.

"N-no, really. I –"

"It was made specifically for Mademoiselle Sachs, Madame Charreaux," the owner now beams in the direction of the newcomer. "You agree she should try it on, _non_?"

"Andrea, you absolutely must!"

"B-but your dress, you –"

"Oh, Andrea, you are such a sweet girl." Andy is gently turned around though she refuses to meet Pierre's mother's eyes. "I have two daughters, do I not?" Her chin is tipped up till she meets the hazel gaze. "There will be a time that someone wears my wedding dress but meanwhile you simply cannot allow this wonderful creation go to waste. I will make you a deal – you try this dress on and if you still prefer to wear mine, then that is what will happen. Agreed?" Andy doesn't even nod. What's the point, they both know this is not a compromise – the dress will fit her like a glove. Antoinette may only guess at that, Andy is certain.

Miranda never makes mistakes.

Gathering the mile of lace, tulle and god knows what else, she steps into the dressing room. Sitting down heavily, her eyes avoid the mirrors; she sits and simply stares at the dress. Time passes, perhaps eternity, faint noises of whispered conversations go on beyond the closed door. Finally sighing she stands, closing her eyes and keeping them shut as long as she possibly can, but eventually she is down to the La Perla underwear and it is time to step into the dress. Something she cannot do blind no matter how she wishes that were possible, just as at times she longs to sleepwalk through tomorrow's wretched day. In the split second that she is about to open her eyes, there is a noise – the door is nudged ajar, there is a draft, it's shut. Andy is startled but not just because she isn't expecting company: her chest is heaving and she isn't sure what secrets will be revealed within the depths of her eyes. So instead she gives a sheepish shrug and murmurs an easy lie, "I want it to be a surprise."

Gentle hands guide her into the dress, do up the myriad of hooks, spin her to where she will face the mirror, then a hot breath scorches her neck, sending a prickle of goosebumps across her skin. She knows the hands, the breath, the delicate scent that has enveloped her – but as long as her eyes remain closed, this is just another fantasy and she has spent a lifetime learning to pretend. She follows every trick in order to keep them closed but eventually her eyes are burning, the silence heavy yet somehow buoyant, so that her eyelids flicker of their own accord, attempt to rise.

"Get out," her voice is reedy thin.

"Open your eyes, Andrea."

"No."

"Look."

Her chin is gripped by a sure hand, her lashes flutter, but after so long in the dark her eyes cannot immediately focus, so the image of them remains a muted blur. Mostly a splash of white, so Andy continues pretending, imagines that facing her are the possibilities of snow. Of course reality – the truth – crystallises slowly until their reflection is all that she can see. They are a study of contrast: Andrea in the expanse of white, her long dark hair; Miranda in a crisp black Valentino suit, her hair a shock of near white. She avoids Miranda's eyes as long as she is able to, doesn't dare look into her own. Eventually, she gives in, often wonders if Miranda holds a special Andy magnet – that has to be the reason that she's always drawn to her, especially to her gaze. The blue is stormy, the sapphire of deep emotion: possession, desire, craving; lust. Miranda's longing has always held shades, conveying her mood, but not today – today it's not the blue of only one, a myriad of them all.

"Please," Andy whispers, not sure what it is that she is asking for. In the very next second, her lips are captured in a searing kiss.

Andy's instant blinding desire renders her bones liquid, pliant, but she has just enough sense to whisper, "Miranda, not here, no." It's half hearted at best, however, it is more than she is normally able to offer; Miranda in her many guises is something Andy has never been able to resist.

"Tell me that you don't love him," Miranda's onslaught is merciless: her mouth assaults, devours, captures Andy's own.

"S-stop."

"Tell me," Miranda's grip tightens on her chin, takes on a hue of cruel.

"I-I can't." _I won't_, her mind corrects her.

The kiss - the bond between them is temporarily broken and as Andy is involuntarily drawn to Miranda's blood-red plump bruised lips. For a crazy second she almost imagines that those lips are forming a word that Miranda so very rarely utters – 'please'. She blinks in surprise and the moment is gone: the lips now thin, the sudden rigidness of Miranda's body is as utterly vicious as her tone. "Then I will make you."

The onslaught resumes.

Andy fights it for as long as she is able to, probably about 30 seconds, but Miranda is so much stronger than Andy has ever been. First and foremost – physically; her deceptively slender body incredibly agile, honed by regular exercise in the gym. Secondly – mentally; her will imprinting itself on Andy's time and time again until Andy isn't sure that she has any of her own left. Lastly – emotionally; Andy's strength on most occasions but her downfall in this arena where it is Miranda's cool control that always triumphs.

She eventually gives in, closes her eyes – her last and lonely bastion; one even Miranda normally struggles - hesitates to breach. But today her mouth, her hands, her body is unrelenting, it's as though her entire being is hell-bent on making Andy watch. So Andy watches and watches and watches until there is a customary brilliant flash, the usual weightlessness; until there's nothing left to see. Apart from Miranda's arm still buried within the folds of her dress – her wedding dress – a vulgar image; the joy of victory so evident in her cold hard gaze.

"I hate you," the words are torn from Andy, coming out as a cross between a sigh and a quiet sob.

"Your body doesn't lie, Andrea, regardless of what you choose to say. It tells me everything I need to know, that you don't love him. At least, not the way that you," Miranda's breath appears to hitch, an unusual catch. "Love me." The pause breaks up the sentence, changes the meaning of the words to something more uncertain – perhaps a statement – a fact, but in another light, another life…a plea.

"I don't love you."

The lies come easier with practice but there is a reason they say you can't bullshit a bullshitter; Miranda simply smiles. It's strange: tranquil, oddly soft, almost tender; incongruous with everything that has just passed. "I wish I could believe you. I wish that it –"

She stops but not before Andy hears it – an inflection - regret? Out of everything, it is that which affects her most, which brings the sting of tears to her eyes. "Go, I said get out." Andy is louder than she means to be, control unravelling, but it already takes every gathered fragile thread in order not to break down, to scream and shout. Miranda recognises that and an unholy gleam enters her eyes. Andy has seen it before many times in her employ, she doesn't know what's coming, but she has the presence of mind to quickly choke out, "Don't."

Ever so slowly the hand creeps out inch by inch, each delicate brush a torture Andy painfully endures until it rests against her stomach. Miranda waits till Andy glances at her in question, then even slower brushes the hand against Andy's tender mouth. Inhaling, Andy smells herself, sees the moisture – proof of her weak resistance; sighs. The next action catches her off guard, filled as it is with utter malice – Miranda slowly drags the hand up and down Andy's dress. She doesn't stop until her hand is dry, Andy too stunned to move. Miranda's swallow is audible, she brings her lips to touch the shell of Andy's ear, breathing softly, "Well, Andrea, do _enjoy_ your wedding day."

Miranda pushes her away, Andy stumbles, rights herself, turns round to confront her but all she is sees is the door closing with a resounding click. It is then she hears it, crams the knuckles of her fist into her mouth, lest she betray herself and make a sound. It's Pierre, his voice high pitched, effervescent with excitement in his greeting, "Miranda, bonjour." She pictures the scene, the European two kisses, before Pierre no longer seems to be able to resist the question, "Well, how does Andrea look?"

"Spectacular," Miranda's response is far louder than it normally is, than it needs to be, though no-one realises that it is just for show – Andy the lone spectator that it's for. Twisting the knife a little deeper, she chuckles, knowing again Andy will be the only one to hear the underlying irony, "I could almost fall in love with her myself."

The others' laughter is joyfully unrestrained; upon the declaration black spots momentarily dance in front of Andy's eyes – the words that she has always longed to hear, twisted for Miranda's own ruthless means. Andy's torso slams backwards into the mirror, unrestrained shudders wracking her body, pins and needles in her legs and arms. She shivers both hot and cold, her shallow breath whistles in and out painfully, so she concentrates on simply drawing a deep and even breath.

Just as Andy nears calm, resolves to burn the dress, her torment multiplies tenfold; the final piece of Miranda's revenge revealed. "Merci, Miranda, I could not have pulled this off without you. I will not forget what you have done for me and for Andrea. I think only you could have obtained that dress, non? My mother tells me the design is maginifique." There is a smacking sound and Andy knows that Pierre has gestured a kiss, something he does only when he is highly excited, and now without any coordination she slides down the mirror into a crumpled heap. The design, the dress, may have been Miranda's doing but the dress was Pierre's intent – his gift. But as usual, Miranda is far too clever to be thwarted, so she has found a way to ruin even this.

"It was worth every cent, I assure you, Pierre. Undoubtedly, Andrea will savour it for many a year to come. I am certain it will be her favourite memory – a beautiful moment...an exquisite dress to match." Miranda's every word is sardonic, each meaning as twofold as it is clear, every syllable a scalpel's slice to Andy's heart. The roaring in her ears returns; grows louder, stronger, builds to a crescendo until Andy is certain she hears an actual snap. For an instant, a curtain of darkness falls - shields her vision, then only blessed numbness, the voices receding to a distance comfortably far away. She rocks back and forth, lost - locked in her own world of anguish; too far gone to do what she so longs for – simply sob.

Not because Miranda's act, her cruel gambit, breaks her.

But because the cold hard truth is – it does not.

Sprawled awkwardly on the patterned tile floor, her ruined dress - day - marriage around her, Andy has come to a realisation – regardless of today, the cost to her and everyone around her, regardless even of Miranda herself – time after time Andy will keep on coming back.

Perhaps Miranda will recognise this, perhaps she will acknowledge it - Andy, perhaps she'll grow to lo…

Even within the confines of her mind, Andy cannot complete that thought.


	6. Wrong Time

**Wrong Time**

"You look so fine  
I want to break your heart  
And give you mine  
You're taking me over

It's so insane  
You've got me tethered and chained  
I hear your name  
And I'm falling over

I'm not like all the other girls  
I can't take it like the other girls  
I won't share it like the other girls  
That you used to know"

**September 2008**

"She doesn't love you, you know." The words are practically spat out, conveying deep-seated anger. "She is never going to love you – you are just like the rest of us, a toy that's conveniently at hand whenever you're needed. But when your use runs out, and trust me that'll happen any time now, it'll be like you don't even exist."

Andy faces off against the teenager with the punk rocker clothes, short cropped hair, a line of silver studs and earrings adorning her left ear. Cassidy – it's so much easier to tell them apart now that they are going through the painful teenage phase where it has long been not so cool to dress the same. Tonight it has never been more obvious that Caroline is the shy dreamy artist, Cassidy the bitter angry rebel.

"Cassidy, I am not really sure what you mean. Your mother and I are friends and –"

"Oh my God," Cassidy's eye roll is vintage Miranda, "why can't you _adults_ cut the crap? I am not a child. In case you haven't noticed I haven't been one for a while now. I _know_."

"Know what?" Andy continues to play the innocent. After all, the affair has lasted longer than two years and she isn't falling for one of the oldest tricks in the book.

"That you are fucking her." The bark of laughter is ugly, "No, let's get real." Andy is measured by a familiar blue gaze, as usual found wanting, "That she is fucking you."

"Cassidy –" Andy's mouth is suddenly as arid as the creek behind her parents' house in Ohio. They might be in a hidden nook off to the side of Miranda's kitchen but this party is huge and it is highly likely that someone might come upon them and overhear this conversation.

Her panic must transmit itself to Cassidy because she laughs again and takes a drag of her furtive cigarette, "Oh, don't worry, your dirty little secret is safe with me. It's always been safe: Samantha, Claire, Jennifer – that's all the ones that I know of. See, it was a while before I caught on."

Andy schools her face not to show any emotion, Cassidy could very well be lying. But deep inside her inner voice whispers bitingly, _oh, Andy,_ _you knew you weren't the first_.

Cassidy continues, "She always follows the same old pattern – seduce, enthral, conceal, then dump. And meanwhile her front is always perfect: our father, James, Stephen, now John. All safe, all first class pricks – that's how she picks them: an alcoholic, a liar, a cheat. That way she doesn't fall in love and when the time comes they can leave her or she'll discard them, either way, it never has to hurt."

"You are wrong," Andy takes a risk continuing this conversation but there are truths it is important that Miranda's kids appreciate. "I was there in Paris, the night Stephen told her that he was filing for divorce. She'd been crying, Cassidy, I know that they were real tears because she was alone. That night I saw the true Miranda and I can tell you she isn't a woman who doesn't care." Andy longs to say more but she can't, her own secrets are not ones she can share.

"Well of course she cares," Cassidy's snort carries derision. "Let me guess, you really think she didn't know that you'd be there that night. Knowing her modus operandi, hmm let me think," Cassidy taps the cigarette against the counter and Andy watches the ash fleck off, fall to the metal surface, smoulder. She wants to say something but she doesn't: it isn't her place, not even her house and definitely not her kid. "It was less than a week before she slept you with you for the very first time, although Caroline seems to like you so you are probably even more of a sap than the other girls." She pauses to take another deep drag, "If you are truly as pathetic as you seem then you would have slept with her that night."

Involuntarily, a line of pink dusts the top of Andy's cheekbones and Cassidy appraises her speculatively, "No, not that night, but I am pretty close. The next day, that was when you walked out, she bitched about it for at least a week. But not like she normally does, different." Apparently Andy cannot conceal anything from any of the Priestly women because Cassidy smirks, "Oh my god, I am right, the next day, yep. Fast work even for her, how long were you her assistant – a year? It usually takes longer for her to break them in."

Andy feels anger rise inside her but as always it's fruitless, destined not to find any release. For while she listens to the venomous words falling from Cassidy's lips, she is attuned to so much more – her defensive posture, the underlying hurt in the teenager's tone, most of all – the pain in her eyes. Cassidy is lashing out, Andy the target and it's not so long ago that Andy remembers doing - being the same, so even as a scathing diatribe builds, persistent doubt flaring within her, she suppresses it; pushes away her own hurt. "You shouldn't doubt that she loves you, you were the reason for her tears that night. You are right, she probably pretended that she didn't care for herself but that wasn't the case when it came to Caroline and you. All she could talk about was how this would affect you both, how the rags would have a field day. You should never doubt the depth of your mother's love." Andy's words are passionate, self assured, certain and for a moment it is as though her doubts transmit themselves to Cassidy: the pain wavering, doubt flickering in her eyes.

In the next instant, she stubs out the cigarette, flicks the butt into the sink, then drawls, "Whatever, I don't really care. You can choose to believe what the fuck you want. Just a word of warning – when she is through with you, don't bother with the impromptu visits and midnight calls. She hates that, though not as much as we do, I swear with Jennifer it was at least a month before we got a decent night's sleep." Shouldering Andy out of the way, Cassidy moves past her, turns around, ineffectually waves her hand in the air to clear the smoke. Tapping her finger on the door frame, she seems lost in thought then ruefully shakes her head and swears, "Shit, I promised Caroline." She sighs and looking into her eyes, Andy sees someone much older than the nearly 15 year old girl she knows Cassidy to be. A battle-scarred weary soul gazes back at her, radiating a hint of shrewdness beyond her years. "Tonight, when the time comes, just look at her. Really look at her and see what's in her eyes."

"What time, Cassidy, what –"

"You'll know. I can't say any more. Just look, okay?" Almost reluctantly she finishes, "You - you are not so bad; like I said, Caroline likes you. You don't deserve this," Walking backwards into the kitchen, she hesitates as the sounds of someone's conversation drifts closer, lifts her hand in front of her face, breathes out, grimaces. Producing a mint out of seemingly nowhere, she pops it into her mouth; crunching, "You don't deserve what she is doing to you, Andy. What she _will_ do to you."

* * *

Miranda is stunning as she descends the staircase but then, of course, she always is. Andy doesn't want to spout such clichés as Miranda looking gorgeous wearing a garbage bag but to her that's just a simple truth. Their eyes catch and it's as though a spark travels back and forth through the invisible line that connects them. Andy offers a crooked grin and a wave, Miranda neither. Nor her expression nor the pace of her descent change but her eyes flick up and down Andy's red Valentino and suddenly the spark becomes a smouldering inferno: carefully banked, nigh invisible, but never to Andy. She smiles – a month's salary down the drain, worth every single cent.

"She is still only the second most beautiful woman in the room." The comment tickles her ear as much as the guilt her heart.

"You are biased," she murmurs back.

"Never. You're a vision tonight, one that I hope to enjoy in private later." Pierre gently bites her earlobe.

Andy resents his possessiveness, his presumptuousness but then again it's her that's led him up the garden path, her that has gifted him with both of these flaws.

"Mmm," her response is carefully inconclusive.

"Andrea, Pierre." Without Andy noticing it, Miranda has floated down to stand beside them.

"Miranda," Pierre takes her hand, bestows a kiss on the knuckles with a flourish. "You are a vision."

Resentment boils up in Andy – she doesn't care that Pierre has issued an identical compliment to Miranda; it's only that she longs to be the one to have the right to say such words – to be the only one that utters them. "Yes, you look wonderful," she follows up, mouthing the bland expected words, her eyes conveying so much more. The velvet blue Armani hugs every one of Miranda's curves, accentuates the colour of her eyes. They appear almost navy as they quickly flick to Pierre's arm around Andy's waist, almost instantaneously glance away.

"Congratulations," Miranda moves forward, embracing Andy. Her fingers linger a little longer than they should as they encounter the bare expanse of Andy's back; caress a trail of fire. Andy feels the pull of longing in her stomach: an ache, a need to possess Miranda, to be able to return the caress out here, in public. As if reading her thoughts, Miranda pulls away. "The New York Times, I always knew what you were capable of, of course, what lay underneath that little _Midwestern_ veneer."

On Miranda's lips Andy's origins have never sounded more dirty, something to be ashamed of. Andy refuses to take the bait. "We all have hidden depths, Miranda. Don't you agree?"

_Touché_, Miranda's eyes gleam, even as she murmurs, "Quite."

"Well, this is a wonderful party." Pierre raises his glass of champagne in a toast, "Thank you for your generosity." Andy follows suit and takes a sip herself.

"Anything for Andrea," a different gleam enters Miranda's eyes, "and her pleasure."

Andy chokes mid swallow; her eyes water as she coughs. "Sorry… champagne… wrong way." Pierre pats her on the back with concern; Miranda's lips purse with the effort of holding back a laugh. Andy's eyes promise revenge. Miranda's brow rises in a silent question - challenge.

"I have just acquired a new painting – Vermeer. A fabulous copy, one almost can't discern the difference between it and the original. I thought perhaps you'd care to see it? "The Love Letter" – one of my favourites, I'd love to know what you think."

Andy hides a smirk: she doesn't need to glance up to know that in the five seconds Miranda took to utter this invitation, Pierre's eyes have glazed over in a panic. Art – he's definitely not a fan. "Ah well," he frantically hunts for an excuse.

Andy does the girlfriend duty, "Is that Armand over there, Pierre? I think I heard him mention he is only staying for an hour. Did you not say that you had business to discuss?"

"Yes!" It's almost pathetic how eager Pierre sounds to get away. Of course stones and glass houses – it's only more pathetic how desperate Andy is to be alone with Miranda. "Would you excuse me, ladies? Miranda, I am sure Andy is in capable hands." Knowing he's been spared Pierre is all charm again, kissing Andy on the cheek before he walks away.

"Well, Andrea," Miranda's voice lowers to a whisper, "I'd hate to disappoint. Perhaps I should prove just how… capable …?"

Andy's knees instantly feel weak; the melodious voice strokes deeper than any caress. "I don't think your capability is in question." Her reply is hoarse and she knows she can't quite suppress the evidence of arousal on her face.

As if in confirmation she is reminded with a smiling, "Remember where we are, Andrea." The warning serves as a dousing of cold water, smothering Andy's libido as quickly.

She smiles bitterly, "Don't worry, Miranda. I've long learned to hide how I really feel."

For just an instant a shadow flits across Miranda's face but the lighting is cosy, dim so Andy chalks it up to her imagination. After all, Miranda has exactly what she wants; she has no reason to feel sadness.

"Let me show you the painting." Miranda walks away, Andy dutifully trotting behind her. She wonders what others see when they look at the two of them, ponders if she will ever cast away the shackles of assistant. It's an unpleasant thought: back then at least Miranda needed her in a professional capacity, now - well, now Miranda's need is very different, one Andy can't rely on; at the mercy of a whim.

Unbidden, Cassidy's words float through her mind and Andy questions softly as they ascend the marble steps, "Who is Jennifer?" The only sign of Miranda having heard her is the stiffening of her shoulders, the sudden rigidity of her back, "Miranda?"

"I don't know a Jennifer, Andrea. For all I know she is one of those insufferably incompetent girls that used to be in my employ. Or there might even be one at Runway now, I don't keep track of them – quite honestly, who knows?"

If not her body, her words betray her, for Miranda that's a hell of a long drawn-out speech. So it's true: the sting of the confirmation registers, her heartbeat drumming out a painful staccato of _how long_. How long ago? How long did it last? And then, of course, the most important one – how long is it I have? She doesn't ask, she's never voiced that question – she knows were she to ask, the answer would be _then_ long.

The Vermeer is in the bedroom, where else – it's an absolutely breathtaking piece. They stand admiring it for a while and Andy hopes Miranda doesn't ask her what she thinks. Words are her tools but in this moment she isn't certain that there are any that are adequate enough. But it seems the silence is the desired response for Miranda seems just as spellbound beside her, at least until Andy glances at the woman at her side. That's when she sees it – the longing, the hunger, not aimed at the painting but at her. Her own longing surges instantly, washing the doubts - the bitterness away.

They embrace and it's the softness of Paris: unhurried, leisurely, unusually … warm. Miranda's lips are ravenous yet infinitely gentle, perhaps the painting's effect. Is Andy the lover that she's been waiting for or is she the lover of Andy's dreams – quicksilver, elusive, and ethereal but never out of her thoughts? Miranda's lips continue their journey of adoration: cheek, ear, the line of Andy's jaw. "Miranda," she moans helplessly, on fire with lust - love, "please."

Miranda chuckles, bites her earlobe but even that act is filled with uncharacteristic sweetness, a promise to fulfil all of Andy's desires - needs. Her hands - her capable talented hands creep lower and soon there is no room for any thought. Still lost in the euphoric haze Andy returns the favour with her mouth – worshipping Miranda, as the painting, on the bed. All too quickly the moment is over and as always Andy yearns to capture it, store it away – more so than usual today, she isn't accustomed to such tenderness , it's normally more quick, rough, desperate – the factor of time and circumstance holding much more sway. Ironic, because here in Miranda's house, in the middle of the party that she's thrown for Andy, they've probably never been more short of time. Make-up, hair, dresses once again in place, Miranda hesitates; seeing the question in Andy's eyes she says with uncustomary uncertainty, "I have something for you. A –"

The knocking on the door prevents her finishing, an insistent voice calling out, "Miranda, are you in here?" Reality – so frequently in a different guise – intervenes, as it always does, this time in the form of Miranda's latest paramour – John.

A veil of disappointment, frustration and anger sweeps over Miranda in a flash. She sighs, and something akin to grief ghosts through her eyes before she points Andy towards the second bedroom door that she would like for her to use. So Andy exits, anxiously trying to not think: of what this present might mean, of the lovemaking – and for once she is so certain it is love, but most of all she tries to bury the cascade of images – of what might be happening right now behind the bedroom door.

* * *

It is some time before Miranda rejoins the party, all the while a seething jealousy burning a hole in Andy's chest. She acts - pretends like nothing is wrong, flits from group to group accepting congratulations, never more aware of the hollowness her lies create. She examines every millimetre of Miranda's skin when she returns, as if she could actually spot it - him, his every trace.

"You told me that was over," the cold voice behind Andy jolts her unexpectedly, she so painfully aware how she has revealed herself. "Don't panic, I doubt anyone else has noticed but I am your mother after all."

"Mum –"

"Don't, Andy. It's utterly disgusting – what you are doing to that boy, what you are doing to yourself."

"You don't know what you are talking about," Andy bites out, teeth clenched, a smile on her face for show.

"Oh, Andy, of course I know. You trail after her like a lovesick puppy, hang on her every word! And all the while, she's using you; she's never going to leave him, whichever him she is on, that is."

Her mother's sarcasm bites deeply, reinforcing as it does Cassidy's words, those of her friends so long ago. "You're wr-rong," her voice trembles a little. "She'll leave him when it's the right time."

"The right time," Elizabeth snorts, "and when is that, Andy? When they're getting married, during the next divorce?" At Andy's anguished look, she mutters acidly, "So you haven't heard the latest talk. I've had the pleasure of circulating this party and I can tell you, that's all that anyone is saying tonight."

"Speculation - Miranda would have told me."

"Because she tells you everything she does? How often do you see her, Andy – once, twice a month? She has an image, two children, a multimillion dollar magazine to run – that life comes with a price, Andrea." Her Sunday school name, her mother is truly mad. "It doesn't include such luxuries as you."

"I am not a thing," she hisses heatedly.

"That is exactly what you are, you just don't see it. Your slavish devotion blinds you to the truth. How long," again that treacherous phrase rears its head, "are you prepared to wait for her? How many years are you going to waste?"

_Forever_, flits through Andy's mind but she's not stupid enough to voice that thought.

"Andrea," her mother sighs, "I just want what's best for you. It isn't her, your future is in front of you, but you refuse to see exactly what you have."

"I love Pierre," Andy shrugs defensively.

"You don't love him nearly enough. He deserves much better," the sting is deep, "for that matter, so do you. Don't throw your life away on someone who doesn't want you, not when you have someone that loves you as he does."

"I –"

"There's nothing more to say, Andrea. Please, for both your sakes, just think on what I've said. And don't say anything hasty; be mindful that some opportunities come around only once." Her cryptic words still lingering in the air, her mother strides away.

The mystery reveals itself much later, once Miranda makes a toast, a sizeable crowd gathered in the enormous front room.

"My turn," Pierre fiddles with his tie and Andy frowns, that's a sure-fire sign that he is nervous. "We all know why we are here …"

"To Andy!" Everyone cheers and takes another swig.

Andy blushes, mouths 'thank you', her gaze drawn to Pierre as he continues his speech.

"Yes, to Andy. Two years ago, I bumped into the most beautiful girl in Paris, undoubtedly the only one wearing quite such a dress when sitting in a park."

Laughter breaks out and Andy blushes again: everyone else because all of them have heard the story of hers and Pierre's meeting, Andy because she vividly remembers what happened that night. She doesn't need to look at Miranda to know their shared secret knowledge would be reflected in their eyes.

"Of course, as we all know, I lied and talked her into having a drink with me, pretending to be something I am not. But that was the one and only time, I promise you," more raucous laughter breaks out, "or maybe it's just that Andrea has made an honest man out of me. So I think it's only fair that I return the favour …"

Somewhere outside of their universe some omnipotent creature presses 'slow'. Pierre's words become an incomprehensible jumble and all Andy can do is watch the motion of his lips – they open and close like a fish out of water but all she can hear is the dull roar in her head. She can feel sweat breaking out as his hand reaches into his pocket, pulls out a box; he sinks down on one knee. His fingers pull open the velvet box and she spies the sapphire, knows exactly to whom the much cheaper smaller version has been gifted six months ago; connects the dots. Her vision greys – as if instantly each colour has bled out, the oxygen around her, her heart.

Turning through air as thick as molasses, she painstakingly twists her head.

Their gazes connect: the brown with the blue, the question with the answer, the fragile hope with the steely truth. Miranda's whole demeanour is implacable - impenetrable, except for a tiny imperceptible nod.

_No_, Andy begs.

Y_es_, Miranda's answer.

_I can't_, she pleads.

The blue flashes with certainty,_ you must_.

They speak with their eyes, it takes less than a second, but it's just long enough to comprehend that this - this is exactly what they meant – the twins, her mother, all her former friends.

And just like that, Andy's fate is sealed. "Yes."

Pierre's whoop of joy is nearly drowned out by applause. Andy's eyes flit to Miranda's once again in acquiescence – _yes, Miranda, I'll be exactly what you want._


	7. One Time

**One Time**

"Something has changed within me  
Something is not the same  
I'm through with playing by the rules  
Of someone else's game  
Too late for second-guessing  
Too late to go back to sleep  
It's time to trust my instincts  
Close my eyes: and leap!

It's time to try  
Defying gravity  
I think I'll try  
Defying gravity  
Kiss me goodbye  
I am defying gravity  
And you wont bring me down!"

**July 2006**

It takes around 30 minutes for the exhilaration of the elaborate 'fuck you, Miranda Priestly' to wear off which is roughly the length of time it takes for the sky to turn from the mugginess of summer heat to the overcast of autumn rain. That's when Andy realises that she does have a care in the world: she has no money, she has no ride and the instant that the raindrops start to pelt her, she realises that she most definitely cannot afford the one thing she has left her job - Miranda for – her pride.

_I see a great deal of myself in you_, floats through her mind.

Andy shuts her eyes and clenches her teeth, _I am nothing like you_.

In Andy's mind Miranda laughs softly. _Don't be ridiculous, Andrea, everyone wants this_.

No, I want something more. Even now, as then, her thoughts are a kaleidoscope – jumbled, unclear. The _more_ is elusive, a mere glimpse, and she knows it's more than just her principles, her morals, Miranda's lifestyle, a stupid writing job.

"_Ca__ va__, mademoiselle? Avez-vous besoin d'aide?" _

As she gazes into concerned blue eyes, Andy's first thought is that all the romantic movies where a pretty girl is rescued by a dashing Frenchman are completely true. Her second thought is that she is alone in the middle of the park and a rapist or a serial killer is just as likely to wear a suit. "Uh, my friend is picking me up in 2 minutes."

His boyish grin is slightly off centre, "Somehow I doubt that's true. An American and a beautiful one at that! Do you need assistance, are you lost?" His smile melts into a frown, "Do you need me to phone the police?"

"Oh, erm, no. I –" remembering granny Megan's advice about confiding in someone impartial, she mutters sheepishly, "I've sort of just walked out on a job."

"Ah," his smile returns. He eyes her up and down, "If you dress like that for work on a daily basis, I have to ask, is your company hiring at all?"

Despite her worries, Andy laughs. There's something appealing about this guy's charm and it's been a long time since someone has looked at her like that. Not since Nate, well not since Nate before … Miranda. "Paris Fashion Week," she answers simply.

It's enough. "Ah, my mother would know all about that. I am afraid I am not much for fashion myself though if I thought I would come across more girls like you, I would be very willing to learn. Pierre," he extends his hand, "Pierre Charreaux." Fumbling in his pocket, he draws out his wallet, produces a crisp white business card. 'Conseiller Financier, Financial Consultant,' is embossed in raised gold letters; a phone number, an address in Paris. "Just in case you thought I was a little, how is it you Americans say," he snaps his fingers after a second, "shady."

"You think shady people don't have business cards?" Andy teases him, shocking herself with her own banter, how at ease she feels with this man she's barely just met.

"That is an excellent point, mademoiselle …?"

In the face of such naked hope, Andy is powerless to resist. "Andrea, um, I mean Andy Sachs."

"If you do not mind, I much prefer Andrea. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl," he bends with a flourish and kisses the back of her hand, "_Enchant__é_." But Andy doesn't hear him, her name on his lips having sent shivers down her spine. He pronounces it exactly like Miranda, so strange hearing it from someone else's lips. It's slightly wrong: a little louder, a hell of a lot lower but if she shuts her eyes she can almost fool herself into thinking it's the same.

"Now this matter of me being shady, I must rectify this at once. It's not so warm, you are shivering, so there's only one way to settle this – Andrea, you must allow me to buy you a drink."

"Um, well," Andy stutters. Its barely afternoon, she doesn't know him, and she is well aware where most men think a drink should lead.

Pierre holds up a hand to stop her, "A café au lait, a cappuccino, an espresso? But I must confess that I will draw the line at Starbucks."

Relief courses through her veins, "Well, okay. On one condition, you must allow me to pay you back."

"Of course," Pierre's face wreathes into the biggest smile yet, "you must buy me a coffee another day. _Absolum__é__nt_!" His eyes crinkle at the corners, a hint of crow's feet appearing, "How could I possibly resist?"

Andy knows that she won't be in Paris long enough to return the favour but having gotten his card she makes herself a promise to mail the money to him; after all she is never going to see him again.

They while away the afternoon chatting and before long Andy becomes aware that several hours have passed. Automatically looking for her phone, it takes a second to register that it's no longer in her possession, guilt sweeping through her quickly on the back of that.

"Let me call you a taxi to the hotel."

"How did you know?"

"I understand we've only just met, Andrea, but," she is captivated by the slight touch of a blush, "I feel like I know you already and everything that you've just told me led me to believe that you were going to return. So you can face Miranda, apologise, likely offer to pay for that stupid phone." His words, her own, make Andy giggle and Pierre looks hopeful - pleased.

They stand together as the taxi nears and just as it pulls up Pierre tugs her back. "Andrea, will you call me? I know we live thousands of miles apart but please? I will be in New York on business, maybe you will come to Paris again, life can be funny at times - who knows?"

Andy opens her mouth to let him down gently instead surprising herself by saying, "Yes."

Pierre looks startled, then shocked before he whispers, "_M____é__rde_." He fiddles with his tie, suddenly looking on the verge of tears before he pronounces, "I didn't think that you'd agree." His words tumble out so fast they almost flow together, "The card – that's not me, I am not a consultant, that's my father." He hangs his head and mumbles, "I am sorry, I just finished my Master's degree. I saw you and I saw the dress and I thought that you would never give Pierre Charreaux, unemployed Civil Engineer, a second glance. But Pierre Charreaux, Financial Consultant, gold card," he grimaces, "I figured that Pierre would get the girl. Anyway, I am truly sorry, again."

He turns, shoulders slumped, and warmth slowly courses through Andy – the likelihood of them meeting again was slim but Pierre chose not to continue with the lie. "Well, Mr Charreaux," she calls out jokingly, "how is it you are planning to support me in the lavish style I am accustomed to if neither of us has a job?"

His smile is brilliant, "You mean it?"

The taxi honks; she laughs, "Sure. Next Thursday." Whipping out the spare pencil she always keeps in her purse, she scrawls her New York number on the back of Pierre's - Pierre's father's card, and hands it to him, "It's a phone date."

* * *

"You have five seconds, Andrea," Miranda is as pale as the night before, the only difference is a layer of make-up which doesn't appear to be doing its job terribly well. "Five seconds to explain yourself before I throw you out. And, rest assured, Elias Clarke _will_ be sending you a bill for the cell phone that you destroyed."

"I understand, I would have offered to pay for it." Andy's newfound confidence wilts under Miranda's steely gaze.

"Four seconds, Andrea."

"I – I," Andy swallows, tries to get the apology out, but the rehearsed words refuse to come.

"Well, as eloquent as always." Miranda gaze is now ripe with derision. "I am sure the National Enquirer will appreciate your services given most of their headlines appear to amount to around one word."

"You don't have to be so cutting," Andy bites out sharply. She is already fired after all, what can a little spunk - a dose of truth really hurt? "Your life doesn't have to consist of only one setting – bitch. And you know what, I am not sorry at all, not in the slightest. Well, except for the phone, I mean," she tacks on hastily at the end.

Miranda appears taken back but only for a second, "Well well, the little kitten shows her claws. Two seconds, Andrea." She taps her foot impatiently, her unexpected tolerance once again making Andy lose her words. "One second."

"You looked beautiful today, up there on the podium, as you squashed your most loyal employee's hopes and dreams as if he was nothing but a bug. The Calvin Klein suits you; it sets off your creamy skin and white hair perfectly." Andy doesn't know where the words are coming from but she is aware that now she's started, she really can't stop. "Every man in the room wanted to do you, every woman wanted to be you. And the black - perfectly compliments your soul."

Spinning on her heels, she quakes like a leaf inside but ensures her back is ramrod straight as she walks away from Miranda slowly, aware she's just made every blacklist that ever existed, quite possibly some that did not. Because Miranda won't forgive such a theatrical exit from a lowly employee: quite likely not the one of earlier, but beyond the shadow of a doubt, not the one that Andy has just made.

The door of her suite is curiously open but she doesn't give it any thought, not until she attempts to close it, and is pushed aside as Miranda storms into the room. "You really know how to pick them, Andrea." The sweep of Miranda's hand slams the door shut. "It's as though you have a sixth sense for these things. Miami, the night I argued with Stephen, today – you always manage to pick the absolutely worst time: for your incompetence, your mere presence, and most of all – for the sheer ignorance of your youth. You think that you know everything about me, don't you - the cold widow spider spinning her perfidious web? Are you aware that I've called the police and the American Embassy to report you missing? Who exactly do you think deigned to open this door so that you could drag your sorry, not to mention $1500 clad, self into this room?" Her chest heaving, Miranda's eyes shoot sparks of cold fury and in this, the most unlikeliest of moments, Andy realises what the elusive _more_ is, what it is she wants.

"You didn't do any of these things," she argues half-heartedly, afraid Miranda will confirm the truth that Andy doesn't want to hear.

"Well, no. I didn't do it personally," Miranda looks utterly outraged, "but I bloody well saw that someone had it done."

Andy collapses to the couch, holding her sides as she lets out a full-bodied laugh of utter relief. Miranda's lips almost disappear with her scowl; her eyebrows rising so high that for an instant Andy is afraid that they might actually merge and forever be lost in Miranda's hair. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that if you make that face one day it might freeze and stay that way?"

Miranda opens her mouth and Andy knows she is about to be flayed alive, before Miranda inhales, breathes out in a whoosh; whispers stiffly, "Not all of us had mothers who were around to tell us… such things."

Compassion washes over Andy instantly, "I am sorry, Miranda."

Miranda turns away. "Yes, well, perhaps if I had had a mother I might have turned out differently. God forbid, I might have been a… you."

"Would that really have been so horrible?"

Miranda's answer is instant, "Yes." She grimaces again, rubs the back of her neck, "No. I don't know, Andrea. I am not a magic crystal ball."

Sensing an imminent return of irritation, Andy moves to calm her. "Do I still have any of that second left?"

Miranda rolls her eyes, "I suppose it would be asking for the moon to expect any brevity from you." Andy sees the temporarily lowered shield go up, Miranda brace herself again.

"I left because I don't want to be you, Miranda." Forestalling any caustic remark, Andy frantically gestures, "No, wait, please let me finish. I don't want to be you, Miranda," Andy blinks, gathers her courage for the biggest, most important, most dangerous risk of her entire life and states her newly discovered truth, "But I want to be with you."

Shocking Miranda Priestly into silence should not rank in your top three achievements but Andy mentally high fives herself as Miranda's mouth drops open, her jaw going almost entirely slack.

Taking the opportunity while she can, she hurries on, "As a friend, if that's all that you want. I mean, that's probably what you want, right? Although of course, I'd like to be a lover. Is that too presumptuous of me?" At Miranda's continued stupefied unblinking stare, Andy feels the dregs of her confidence ebb and resorts to what she does so well when she is nervous – babble. "It is, isn't it? I don't really know what I was thinking, you are obviously straight. And I think that I am straight, or I was. Now I am not so sure, I've never done this. Maybe I'm just gay for you? I guess –"

Miranda moves much quicker than any woman of her age has a right to. "Andrea, you really must learn when to shut up."

"Well," before Andy even thinks of righteous indignation, Miranda is up close and personal and Andy wonders why she's never noticed the little flecks of aquamarine in Miranda's eyes. Or how soft and smooth her skin looks, not really fair for a woman of her age. Or how her mouth - or how her mouth - or how her mouth, Andy's thoughts falter at its proximity before her lips are captured in a sweetly tender kiss.

"Mmphh," she tries to speak, Miranda's smoky laugh curling through her faster, stronger, headier than any wine. "Andrea, afterwards, I am certain that you'll find plenty cause for talk."

"Mmphh," Andy agrees and gives in to the surge of feeling and it's a long long time before she utters anything other than "Yes, oh yes. Oh yes, right there, Miranda. Harder, please harder. Oh god, Miranda, yes."

She is much clumsier returning the favour but what she lacks in skill, she makes up with her effort and hard work. It takes a while, another long long while, and then as Miranda finally cries out Andy realises the rush of power from reducing Miranda to a pile of shaking quivering limbs is utterly addictive, so again nothing is said for a very long long time. And then of course Miranda must return the favour, because its 2 to 1, not that Andy is technically keeping score. Miranda makes her come twice, delicately blots her lips the last time, before caressing Andy's ear with her breath, "3:2." Never one to be deterred, Andy goes down like a trooper and somewhat faster this time, she ends up grinning, "I believe 3:3."

"Well, how surprising," it is Miranda's turn to chuckle weakly in between the gasps and pants.

"What?"

"There is a decent use for your mouth, after all."

Biting her shoulder playfully, Andy soothes the bite with a tender lick, which turns into another lick, another, before Miranda finally concedes defeat. "Enough. I am 52 years old, Andrea. I don't need the scandal of a sordid hotel room death."

"But what a way to go," Andy collapses beside her; brushes the bangs out of her eyes. "I don't think that I'd mind it myself."

"Of course you wouldn't," Miranda complains dryly, "Fucked to death by the famous La Priestly herself, now there's a headline to beat them all."

Suddenly serious, Andy gazes at Miranda, sees the myriad of colours, so much more vivid than they've ever been. Only with her, never with anyone else no matter how she's tried. That fact alone should have been the tipping point but now - now there's the factor of the mind-blowing sex. "You are not just a story to me, Miranda. I'd never sell you out, you are not a fling."

Miranda rises, puts on a bathrobe, her face equally as sombre as Andy's. She turns away to face the window, "Andrea, in my life there are some ground rules. I think that you should hear them before you start thinking hearts and flowers, commitment rings and happily ever afters."

"That was uncalled for," Andy whispers angrily.

Miranda turns round, her gaze stripping Andy bare to the soul. "No, Andrea, I really don't think it was. I know what you are thinking, I can see it in your eyes already – a little house, a picket fence, a puppy, 2.6 kids."

"2.4," Andy corrects her woodenly.

"Oh well, pardon me," Miranda's sarcasm is overwhelming, especially as Andy is still lying in the bed in which they've tenderly made love mere moments ago. "2.4 kids, thank you for correcting me, I guess the 0.2 makes all the difference to you."

"Why are you doing this, Miranda?"

"Because, Andrea, sooner or later you are going to have to open your eyes. You can leave the fashion world, my world, but there are always Emilys; even being a journalist - a writer, there will be someone that you have to cross. We all make choices - hard choices in our life, it is inevitable. Andrea, I chose a very long time ago. I've made my sacrifices, paid my dues; I am what I am and I'm not about to change. So now you have a choice – leave here tonight and don't come back or stay, remain in my world, but on my terms."

"You mean continue to work for you?"

"No, we both know that bridge is burnt, Andrea. I am afraid your employment with Runway has been terminated. But there are other jobs out there in New York. Didn't you always say it was your dream to write?"

"Then how –"

"Discretely, occasionally; never in the same place twice."

"Until the divorce?"

Miranda's bark of laughter is high enough to shatter crystal, certainly high pitched enough to shatter Andy's heart. "Divorce, the next relationship, however long that one lasts; Lord knows I hope not another divorce, I honestly don't know what one more would do to the girls."

Horrified Andy whispers, "Miranda, but what about us?"

Bewildered, Miranda shakes her head, "What about us? Was there really something that I didn't make clear? We'll meet maybe twice a month, in a hotel room of my choice. Then we go our separate ways. Now that you are no longer in my employ, it won't be impossible to believe that we might have a casual lunch, might even become friends. I really don't comprehend what's difficult to understand here, Andrea."

Andy swipes a tongue over her lips, "W-what –" Her voice is squeaky so she clears her throat, states in her normal pitch though it is anything but how she feels, "what about love?"

"What about love?" Miranda frowns.

"Nothing," Andy's voice is forlorn but this time she doesn't hide exactly how she feels.

Pulling on the clothes mechanically, she asks, "The ticket back to New York, can I use it? I promise that I'll pay you back."

"What are you doing, Andrea?"

"What does it look like? I am getting dressed."

"Where do you plan to go? It's late. The ticket isn't for another 2 days."

"Then I'll figure something out, I h-have a wallet, I have a family. I'll f-find somewhere to stay." The words are shaky, her vision blurry, so she doesn't catch Miranda's bitter resigned gaze. "I'm sorry," she turns and pauses at the door, "I'm really sorry, Miranda. It's just… I can't." She tries to justify the decision that's already shredding her insides with precision, "my conscience, my principles, won't let me." Skewered by that judging boring gaze, she offers finally - defensively," It's just that… I am a good person, Miranda."

"Yes, Andrea, I usually find that's what all the cowards say."

"I am not a coward."

"Yes, you are, Andrea." Miranda walks up to stand behind her. "What's even worse – you are predictable as well."

"You didn't expect what happened tonight."

"Maybe, maybe not. You'll never know for sure now, will you?" Her fingers flick out to contemptuously point to the A4 sheet of paper on Andrea's desk. "Your boarding pass, the taxi will be downstairs in about," she glances at her watch, "30 minutes. I suggest you not be late or you are going to miss your flight."

"How –?"

Miranda opens the door, throws Andy one last lingering look, "It's as I've said, Andrea, if you are one thing it's…predictable. I ordered Emily to change your reservation last night."

* * *

The meeting across the street is totally accidental: Andy reassures herself that it is fate, divine intervention, and providence; pretends she hasn't walked past the building every other day. Since Paris, that night, since anything Miranda; since everything has utterly completely changed. A gamble, a toss of the coin, a risk – and she has earned a recommendation, a meagre tossing out of a little goodwill. But this one gesture isn't just about employment; it's so much - volumes more. Miranda will never call, won't beg Andy to reconsider, she'll simply find a way to let her know. And now she has and who is Andy to deny her - to deny the craving whose hooks are buried in so deep? One night - one lousy fabulous mind blowing night and she is a goner; her smile widens in acknowledgment of the truth within that thought.

She waves: a short sharp childish clumsy wave and she is instantly embarrassed, this isn't quite how she envisaged it would go. Miranda doesn't acknowledge her, simply dons her oversized Dolce & Gabbana glasses and settles into the familiar limousine. Andy blushes but remembers that yet again she owes gainful employment to this woman and quickly glancing down, once more reads Pierre's latest text.

_Bonne chance, Andrea._

_You shouldn't be scared._

_They are lucky to have you. _

_I'm so excited about my interview in New York!_

_Keep your chin up, it'll work out._

_Carpe Diem or as you Yanks say – seize the day! ;-)_

Andy taps the phone against her hand and smiles. She spins it round in her hand, fingers twitching over the plastic buttons; breathes in and out and mutters, "You are not a coward, Andy, carpe diem." She adds the other version silently – as a measure of precaution and for good luck.

Dialling the number before she chickens out, she hears the familiar smooth voice, "Andrea, the utter gall –"

"Iloveyou," she blurts it out instantly. The words are so much easier to say than she had ever thought. More smoothly she repeats, "I love you." Now at a loss, not having planned on ever having enough courage to make this call, she flounders; adding quickly, "I just thought I should let you know."

Her courage - her love only extends so far, so green and fragile she offers it protection, and biting her lip she hits the button that ends the call. Almost immediately her phone rings, she lets it. Miranda calls her two more times. On the third call, Andy plucks up the strength to answer it to hear an acid, "Andrea, you will _never_ let a call go to voicemail again. Your new phone will arrive tomorrow. The Morgan Hotel, Madison Avenue, six o'clock. A 3 star hotel, Andrea," Miranda's scandalised tone can't possibly dim Andy's thousand watt grin, "I dread to think of the thread count of the sheets." She sniffs but underneath the condescension and the ire, Andy is sure she can sense a growing smile.

"See you then," Andy offers softly, with anticipation.

"Their bathrooms have a black and white checked pattern." Spat out with indignation, through gritted teeth, somehow Miranda's sentiment's the same.


	8. The Beginning Is The End

**The Beginning Is The End**

"You with the sad eyes  
don't be discouraged  
oh I realize  
it's hard to take courage  
in a world full of people  
you can lose sight of it all  
and the darkness inside you  
can make you fell so small

But I see your true colours  
shining through  
I see your true colours  
and that's why I love you  
so don't be afraid to let them show  
your true colours  
true colours are beautiful  
like a rainbow"

**October 2005**

As any child, Andy is awfully fond of colours. It takes some time before her parents notice a pattern: at first attributing it to a whim, then simply to a vivid imagination. Eventually, when she can no longer ignore it, when even Andy's teachers begin to ask, Andy's mother raises the matter carefully. "Sweetheart, I notice your objects are different bright colours. And you're so careful – always colouring inside the lines. But your people…why only certain colours, why always outside the edges?"

Andy scrunches up her eyebrows. She doesn't really understand the question. "Because that's what people are like."

"What do you mean, Boo?"

"That's their colours, you know. Red. Green. Blue."

She watches her mother chew on her thumbnail before sitting down, hugging Andy. "People are red?"

"Uhuh," Andy nods vigorously. "Like last week. At the party. When Mrs Myers was talking to Dad. She moved real close to him. And then she was like all red."

Her mother appears to groan then not-so-subtly covers it with a cough. "I see. Do you mean her face went red?"

"No. All of her. Umm, inside."

Her mother frowns, "And the thing about the colour being outside the edges?"

Being small, Andy concentrates really hard, not sure how to describe it. Eventually it comes to her. "It's like, well, if you watch TV at night in the dark and the screen - it glows. It's the same for people. Like that." Proud that she managed to find a good way to explain it, she gives her mother a toothy grin.

Her mother doesn't smile back. In fact, like the time last week she and Andy's Dad had a massive fight, she looks like she is trying not to cry. "Who else knows about this?"

"About what?"

"You know - people, the colours that you see."

"Just Stacey. She went all green when I told her."

Her mother sighs, "Honey." Sitting down heavily in the chair, she pulls Andy into her lap. "We need to have a talk."

Andy burrows closer, this happens to be her favourite spot, and starts fiddling with her mother's pretty necklace. Gazing up trustingly, she sees her mother hesitate and then haltingly say, "I – um … I need you to start drawing inside the lines. And colour in normally. The way things - people, really are."

Andy frowns in bewilderment, "Why?"

She is hugged that much tighter. "Because… well… have you seen the way the other kids colour in?"

Andy nods.

"And what are their pictures like?"

"Boring."

"And?"

Andy squirms uncomfortably. "Neat."

"Does anyone else colour like you do?"

Head down, Andy mumbles, "No." She feels ashamed suddenly and she doesn't know why. She hasn't done anything wrong, she's sure of that. Not like last week when she chipped the paint off her brand new bike.

"Do - do you want to be different from other kids? Do you know what happens to kids like that?"

Andy swallows; remembers the small geeky kid with glasses that's always getting pushed around on the playground. His name might be Gavin but she's never spoken to him to find out because Andy knows her friends will make fun of her if she does. Even quieter now, she whispers, "No. Yes."

"I know you don't understand right now but you will." Her mother strokes her hair. "It's just better this way. That you fit in."

"Is it bad then?" Andy bounces her foot off the chair in contemplation. "Not to be like everyone else?"

Her mother sighs, "Not bad, Andy, just… hard. People aren't always accepting of those that are different."

Andy suddenly gets nervous. Anxiously, she twists in her mother's lap, worrying her bottom lip. "But you'll still love me, right? I mean… cause you know… that I am different… even if I pretend?"

"Oh sweetheart, of course I will – I'm your mother. I'll always accept you no matter what." She tickles Andy's tummy and sides, making her laugh.

Of course, as many parents do, she'll go on to break that promise.

Once they stop messing around, Andy thinks some more, gets worried again. "Will no-one else love me? If they know, you know… what I am really like?"

"Of course they will," her mother reassures her. "You just need to find someone, well, exactly like you," she tweaks Andy's nose playfully.

Andy's resolve steady with the flush of youth, she jumps off her mother's lap determined to find exactly that. But it proves much harder than it seems – to find this special someone - to fit in, but eventually fooling people comes quite easily and gradually seeing people's colours fades.

Stubbornly, she never forgets her mother's words though, and even as she settles for stereotypically safe Nate, inside she goes on believing that one day she'll find that one person with whom she'll never have to pretend.

"So, you don't read _Runway_?"

* * *

The first flash of colour is so unexpected, Andy can only stammer, "Uh, no."

"And before today, you had never heard of me?"

The streak of red almost dances in front of Andy's eyes. "No."

"And you have no style or sense of fashion."

A slash of blue criss-crosses the red. Andy shakes herself mentally, manages to string together a practically coherent sentence, "Well, um, I think that depends on what you're …"

"No no, that wasn't a question."

The vivid blue intensifies. Andy wonders if the interview could possibly get worse should she literally rub her eyes. She offers pointlessly, "Um, I was editor in chief of the _Daily Northwestern_. I also, um, won a national competition for college journalists … with my series on the janitor's union … which exposed the exploitation …" She trails off weakly. Miranda Priestly, a woman she's just met – the woman, the… everything, looks summarily unimpressed. Andy desperately wants to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth and whisper, "Oh my God, I've found you. You are the one."

She doesn't, she just stands there like an idiot as Miranda eyes her, finally sighing, "That's all."

Andy turns around, takes a step. _What if this never happens again?_ Her inner voice whispers urgently, seductively, and Andy knows that she only has this one chance. She's never gambled in her life: she's solid, reliable, steady; but just this once, she's willing to take a risk. Spinning sharply, she scoffs, "You're right. I don't fit in here." _There's nowhere I've ever really fit_. "I am not skinny or glamorous and I don't know much about fashion. But I am smart. I learn fast and I will work very hard." _I promise to do whatever it takes to get to know you_.

Just for a second she feels a real connection, maybe, just maybe … but before it has a chance to be nurtured, to grow, a bald thin man strides into the room. And just like that, the fragile links snaps, Miranda's attention now focused elsewhere. Unbidden, Andy feels the sting of tears but she's just the presence of mind to call out a parting, "Thank you for your time."

He says something; she doesn't hear him, lost as she is in an inexplicable feeling of grief. She tries to shake it as she rides down in the elevator, this perplexing sensation of utter loss. Trying to pep herself up, she promises herself that she'll stop at the art supply store later on and get some paints instead. Crossing the lobby she hears the best and the worst word that she'll ever hear, "Andrea;" Emily's high-pitched and strident voice calling her back.

* * *

Much to Andy's consternation, though not surprise, things don't start well and then continue downhill from there. The only consolation – Miranda is… unique. No-one can possibly be more demanding, or more cutting, or more uncaring, or more - just more. But there's also no-one else that knows so much about colour – its every texture, pattern, hue and shade. No-one else that can ever share Andy's world quite like Miranda - that can ever understand the real person behind the shell. So Andy trots in everyday, resolve firm, in the morning and every evening she goes home chanting that she wants to quit. She has no life, she barely has friends and Nate, ah Nate… well life with him begins to hold almost as much, if not more, stress.

Then work improves, and Miranda almost starts to warm to her, but then of course, Miranda liking her ends up being more of a hindrance than a help.

"No, Miranda. Emily would die. Her whole life is about Paris." _Where as my whole life seems to be about you_. "She hasn't eaten in weeks. I – I can't do that. Miranda, I can't."

Miranda glances up, "If you don't go, I'll assume you are not serious about your future…at Runway or any other publication." What Andy hears is, "_I'll assume that you are not serious about me_."

"The decision is yours. That's all." She glances back down in dismissal as the blue swirls ever deeper around her and for Andy there can – there will – only ever be one answer.

It's really not a choice at all.

* * *

"That is your answer for everything lately, 'I didn't have a choice." Nate complains loudly.

_I don't_, Andy wants to tell him. _Please, Nate, let this go. I am begging you, you won't come out on top should you make me choose_.

"Maybe we should take a break."

The eventual comment is predictable and on the surface Andy knows she cares. But underneath, deep down where she doesn't venture, a tiny flicker of relief begins to bloom.

His last scathing remark completely stuns her though, a foreign unexpected thought. "You know, in case you are wondering…the person whose calls you take, that's the relationship that you're in. I hope you two are very happy together."

_We could be_, flits through Andy's mind; she only has time to mull it over for half a second.

Picking up the phone she answers, "Miranda?"

Upon hearing the familiar voice, a skein of happiness winds through her; Andy instantly - assuredly correcting her own fleeting thought.

_We would_.


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**November 2014**

"_Good to know your taste in music is just as mediocre as your taste in men." _

A long buried memory of a conversation re-surfaces – a bittersweet, if rare, thought. Andy likes jazz, she always has and she likes middle of the road – so she has always settled for the charm of Nate, the kindness of Pierre. There are a million Nates and Pierres in this world, but there is only one Miranda; the sad truth is though uniqueness is a flaw, a drawback, a curse. For humankind is simply rats trapped in a larger maze: all of us carefully trained – to run and run and run – but only to the cheese. And should you put a piece of broccoli or a carrot, the fact is – it will likely be ignored. She sighs; too maudlin a thought for such a beautiful day, such a wonderful occasion: another wedding, another marriage, another broken life. Well, two lives, maybe three or more, but who is counting, when quite so many have fallen by the wayside?

She pastes on a smile as the hustle and bustle continues around her; remembers her own wedding, mentally offers thanks that for this one she hasn't had to do anything at all. Pierre looked cover model perfect on their wedding day, much like this handsome dashing groom. She watches him laugh, spin the bride around, make silly poses with his friends. She knows, of course, she's always known but she has never said it – the last three years have taught her that it's not her place. So she'll be there when it finishes, when this bride will shatter, when someone is needed to pick up the pieces of her life. Then she will do her duty, offer comfort; weighing it up in her mind, she takes an educated guess at how long they're going to last.

_One year, maybe two_.

_That's exactly how long you promised you would wait for her, back then, at the beginning of it all_. She chides herself for the errant turn of her thought. So much has passed, so much has changed, yet nothing has – she's still here waiting, waiting for something that will never come to pass. _Tell me, has she put her life on hold?_ Her own voice mutters sarcastically. _It doesn't matter_, she replies. _She did what she needed to_, _after everything that I've done_ _it had to end – what's done is… lost_.

Would she change it if she could? Would she do things differently? Of course she would but would it really change a thing? Another life, maybe another person; she acknowledges Miranda Priestly's actions will - would have always caused the same. Taking responsibility has never made her feel any better though, in fact, considerably worse. Undoubtedly, Miranda Priestly would have blamed Andrea, cut her losses, so easily moved on. She can't, she's tried time after time and failed; her pain the only constant through it all. A throbbing crippling crushing ache right in the centre of her chest, she's even seen a doctor, almost surprised to hear him pronounce that she still has a heart. Or at least the organ is intact – she isn't sure about the rest of it – the crucial invisible link from the organ to the soul. Did it ever exist? Sometimes she wonders. And if it did, it died a very long time ago.

"Hey Mum," the voice is uncharacteristically soft, uncertain; cuts across Miranda's melancholy thoughts.

She looks up, instinctively sizing up her daughter with a practiced eye. She is a vision in white, another cover model person, only Miranda truly knows what lies beneath – another Miranda in the making: capricious, cruel, calculating, and with it all – whip-smart. It's why she knows the marriage won't last; it's why she manages to feel some pity even as she watches what may as well be a home movie of her own first wedding day. Which predictably ended in divorce, just as this will; _poor Zack_, she sees him laughing – he has utterly no clue what's going to happen, what lies in store for him.

She smiles and she knows it's cruel with pleasure but it is rather hard to cast off shackles of the past. "Hi, bobbsey," She pats the chair beside her but Cassidy prefers to stand.

"I have something for you." She proffers the package to Miranda who is shocked to see the tremble in Cassidy's hand, the sheen of tears in her eyes.

"Cassidy, sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"I did something," her daughter's breath hitches momentarily, "I did something a long time ago. Something bad."

_Which thing?_ Miranda thinks sarcastically, _there's rather many from which to choose_. But she bites her tongue, restrains herself from making the caustic comment; one of the things that she has learned. "I am sure it doesn't matter now," she smiles.

"Well, that's the thing," Cassidy whispers nervously, "it does."

"Why?" Miranda frowns, puzzled.

"Because of this," she indicates the package, "because of –"

Miranda interrupts, some habits die harder than others, "Is this from you?"

Unfurling the bow, she catches Cassidy negatively shake her head.

"From your sister?"

Another firm shake, another hesitation, "It's from - it's from someone that you used to know."

"Used to?" Miranda arches her brow.

"Some time ago."

"Strange that an old acquaintance would send me something on your wedding day but well –" She drops the lid in shock as she gazes at the contents of the box. 'Miriam Princhek' is embossed across the front cover of the journal; only one person would have taken care to find out, only one person would ever want to know. "C-cassidy," her voice shakes so hard that she is afraid she won't be able to get out the words, "W-who …" Her heart pounds in her chest so rapidly that she is truly scared – she's 60, a prime age for a heart attack. She swipes a hand over her suddenly sweating brow and barely chokes out, "W-who gave you this?"

There is no answer for a very long time.

When Miranda is a little more composed, she glances up, catches something she hasn't seen for a good number of years in the sky blue eyes: pity, regret, genuine emotion. Cassidy whispers, "I think you know. I am going to go now so you can look at it in private but what we - what I did back then, what I told Andrea, I honestly thought it was for the best. I –"

"Don't," Miranda is her old self –quiet, deadly; her fingers clench into a fist. "Just go, Cassidy." The blue meets blue, relaxes, reassures. "I really don't need to hear what you said, I can guess." The final hurdle is hard to climb but Miranda clenches her jaw, attempts it; succeeds. "The truth is you were most likely right."

"I am sorry," Cassidy offers tentatively.

"There's nothing to be sorry for." Miranda dredges up a passable smile. "Go, enjoy yourself, it's only once you get to have this kind of fun."

Her fingers caress the leather before Cassidy even departs: feel out the solidness of the binding, trace each letter's intricate gold groove. Eventually she is unable to put it off any longer, gingerly lifts out the heavy book. She opens it as if it's a first edition, and in every way that matters, it is. The only edition really, there isn't any other; her fingertips carefully trace the inky writing on the very first page. _25__th__ October 2011_ and underneath a carefully pasted article, 'America's foremost fashion queen retires! What next for Elias Clarke and _Runway_ magazine?"

She softly laughs, recalling - reliving the terror of that day. She honestly wasn't certain back then that she was going to make it without her beloved Runway but three years later, and lo and behold, she has survived. She turns each page: another chapter in her life - her story – the various relief trips overseas, the forming of the Miranda Priestly charitable foundation; the birth of Caroline's twin girls. Only 19 years old, unwed, a mother; a grandmother – Miranda still shudders at that thought.

The last page is blank, there's just a simple heading – What's Next? It's then she hears the first chords of her secret guilty pleasure – their story really – Miranda's favourite song.

"There were nights when the wind was so cold  
That my body froze in bed  
If I just listened to it  
Right outside the window"

She glances up, unerringly locates the face she's looking for across the room.

"There were days when the sun was so cruel  
That all the tears turned to dust  
And I just knew my eyes were  
Drying up forever"

Andrea has changed, perhaps almost as much as Miranda has: she's visibly older - tougher, her hair a little shorter, there is a tiny crescent shaped scar at the corner of her lip. Miranda can't wait to hear about it, about the past 3 years, explore the fresh groove, preferably with her mouth.

"I finished crying in the instant that you left  
And I can't remember where or when or how  
And I banished every memory you and I had ever made"

Andrea arches an eyebrow in question, Miranda simply holds up her left hand. On it glints the sapphire – a tiny practically non-existent stone, its worth more dear than all her other jewellery combined. The process is reversed, Miranda finding herself short of breath until she sees it – the shrug, the encompassing gesture of a hand to indicate Andrea's location, the playful smirk on her mouth as if to say, "Well, there's a reason I am here!"

"There were moments of gold  
And there were flashes of light  
There were things I'd never do again  
But then they'd always seemed right"

This time Miranda nods before Andrea even has the chance to gesture - ask. In reply Andrea holds up her own left hand, wherever she's been she's managed to pick up the tiniest hint of a tan, but tellingly her ring finger is blessedly free of any revealing white mark. She stands, they both do, move towards each other slowly; meet at the edge of the dance floor, on middle ground, like they should have from the start.

"There were those empty threats and hollow lies  
And whenever you tried to hurt me  
I just hurt you even worse  
And so much deeper  
There were hours that just went on for days  
When alone at last we'd count up all the chances  
That were lost to us forever"

Andrea glances to the left, waves at Cassidy, immediately swings her gaze back to Miranda who can still discern the lingering trace of pain in the brown eyes. What's done is done, the past is history, but those scars will never completely fade away. Miranda's eyes convey an unreserved apology, even though she knows her touch - her love, can never erase or soothe them all.

"If you forgive me all this  
If I forgive you all that  
We forgive and forget  
And it's all coming back to me  
When you see me like this  
And when I see you like that  
We see just what we want to see  
All coming back to me"

They communicate silently: renew their connection, listen, but through it all they abstain from the one thing they've never excelled at – speech. Eventually they smile and Miranda asks the only thing that matters at this moment, "Tell me," she nods towards the DJ, "how did you know?"

"Because I know you so well," Andrea grins, then laughs, "No, I'm just kidding. I've got about 8 of her songs queued up."

"Cassidy's going to hate you."

Andrea snorts, "Well, not my fault, you know…I've always told her mother that her music tastes leave much to be desired."

"Her mother?" Miranda questions softly; then takes the boldest hardest step of her entire life, "I wasn't aware that you two had met."

The flare of surprise momentarily illuminates then understanding darkens the brown. "Now that I think on it you may be right."

Miranda extends her hand and utters something that she hasn't said for over 30 years, "Miriam. Miriam Princhek. Something tells me that we're going to get along."

The spark accelerates the minute they touch, involuntarily they both smile; Andrea completing the introduction, "Andy. Andy Sachs. I know that it's presumptuous of me, Miriam, but seeing as how we're right here, I have to ask you – would you care to dance?"

"With pleasure," Miranda replies. As Andy guides her to the dance floor, confidently sweeping her into her arms, Miranda softly murmurs just once for old time's sake, "Well, Andrea, what exactly took you so long? You've taken glacial pace to a whole new level and I know you're well aware of how that thrills me." At Andy's playful mock frown, she clarifies the one thing she has always yearned for but could never have said, "I've waited eight years for you to lead."


End file.
